Page 119 of Veil of Blood and Bone

She can’t accept it yet. Instead of pushing the issue, force her to admit it, I nod.

“Was it a good tale?” I ask.

“No. But I needed to hear it, I think.” Her voice is a quiet whisper, a brush of air on a dry leaf, and my lungs shudder.

I’d rather her laughter than her confusion, her dimples and her freckles than the ragged look in her eyes like they’re showing an echo of loss she doesn’t recognize.

“Good. Hopefully he kept it short. He’s been known to spout a fucking sonnet if you let him.”

This close, the individual patterns of those freckles are a temptation. To kiss each one and to taste her skin, to be that flush to the blood pumping in her veins⁠—

“He’s a smooth talker and charming,” Helene replies, and her blush, her scent, both ripen.

Ah. Got it. Selfish asshole. “Yes, he is.”

“He didn’t try to convince me of anything.” She lifts her chin. “I, uh, I made a choice. To talk to him.”

She coughs on the word talk.

“Why do you sound defiant?”

She blows out a breath, and the small crease between her brows shifts into a V. “I don’t know. It’s strange.”

I want to feel the comfort of her in the unfamiliar touch of this body. I refuse to move. “Then talk it out.”

I keep watching her and memorizing the smallest fraction of movement, the way her hand flows through the space. The way her gaze wanders faintly along the lines of the room, the path memorized. A drop of sweat trails from her hairline down the glide of her cheek and she swipes it away, smearing it over her freckles.

How many nights have I stayed awake and dreamed of being with her this way? How many days have I woken alone with a wave of grief so intense there’s no air.

Reaching for her is the most natural thing in the world, and a hunger I’m powerless to stop. And because it is, I keep my spine straight, my leg over the side of the bed and my foot firmly planted on the floor.

“You drink blood?” Helene blurts out.

I draw a shaky breath. We’re running out of time and weakness is not a luxury in my budget. Not here, not with her, not until we’ve beaten this cycle.

If we push her too hard, it will make the entire situation more stressful for us all. The last thing I want to do is manipulate things more. The pressure of time shouldn’t touch her yet.

Not if I can help it.

“Yes, I do. Although I don’t need it as much anymore. I’m too old.”

But I want it. I need it more than I need anything except her.

Helene searches my face. In the following beat, she pushes away from the wall and kneels beside me, our legs touching. “So why do you look at me like I’m your next meal?”

“I don’t.”

“That’s when you can actually stand to meet my eyes. Most of the time you’re staring at a wall. Or the floor,” she says.

I tear my gaze free of the opposite wall to prove a point.

We need a fucking chaperone.

Through all the years, all the lifetimes I’ve waited and watched the world rot and hope decay, she is still the singular bright spot.

Her life hasn’t been easy. The anguish of it is written in her eyes as much as the expectation she still harbors.

“You died in my arms first,” I tell her softly. It’s a confession that will cause us both pain. “When you opened your eyes again, in a new body, in a new life, you didn’t remember me. You never do.”