AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It’s nineteenth-century English. It means a deep, unbroken sleep.”
“And you were alive in the nineteenth century?”
I snort. “No. But I read books, you know. I liked the sound of it. I like books, and history, and music, andyou.”
A sigh escapes her, a light puff. Her mouth forms a tiny smile. “I like you, too, Ash.”
I smile back even as my eyes close, my lids heavy. “Are you staying then?”
She sighs and I think she’ll say no, but that’s not what happens. “I’m staying.”
“Will you read me something?”
“I will,” she says and even more wondrously, she keeps her promise. She reads for me from Durrell’s“Caesar’s Vast Ghost”about his life in Provence, a book I’d left unfinished on the shelf, and it calms the ache in my head and silences the doubts, letting me sink into the mattress. Her leg touches mine, a spot of warmth that spreads through me, not a wildfire of desire like before but a trickle of wellbeing and peace.
And when sleep comes, it’s treacle-deep and it smells of pretty girl and magic.
22
MIA
Ashton finally looks peaceful, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in deep sleep. I put down the book and gaze at him, feeling stupid for doing so but unable to stop myself. There is something about watching someone sleep—a gorgeous boy sleep—that is so magical. Black lashes resting on flushed cheekbones, the hint of stubble on his jaw, silky black hair tumbling on his forehead… That strong body in repose, the sculpted arms and the smooth planes of his chest, the long muscular legs and… although he tucked himself away, I can see the outline of the cock I held and tasted, the cock that was inside of me, under the shredded fabric.
What possessed me to go down on him? Allow him inside of me? I have no clue. But if the pleasure he felt is half what he made me feel afterward, then… A strange sort of pride fills me, knowing I did that to him. I helped him. And I pleasured him. And he lusted after me and wanted to make me lose myself, too.
Move, Mia. You didn’t stay to stare at him.
Sadly.
Can’t believe I slept with this boy, too. The only one I haven’t slept with is Sindri, and God… I have to stop thinking about sex.
Putting Durrell back on the shelf, I walk around Ashton’s room, trailing my fingertips over the furniture. It’s as ornate and looks as old as what I’ve seen in Sindri’s room—only not as magical, perhaps. I glance at the carved mirror just in case, but all I see is a flushed, frazzled version of myself, eyes wide and dark, mouth bee-stung, clothes disheveled. I pull on my blouse to straighten it, pat my hair down, then make myself move away.
I approach the desk and carefully, trying not to make a sound, open one of the two drawers. What exactly am I looking for? No idea, but I need clues.
Who did he kill? What was her name? How did it happen? Why did he steal the motorbike that—
Wait. Wait a second. I pause, my hand on a delicate paper cutter with a green stone handle. Melissa said Ashton had stolen the motorbike that almost got him killed—but he just said that his father gave it to him.
Who to believe?
Melissa has no reason to lie to me. But if I accept she didn’t, then did Ashton lie to us? Why would he? What does he have to gain?
The only other option is that Melissa has the wrong information. Someone else lied toher.
No use trying to figure this one out. My priority is to search his room before he wakes up and catches me red-handed. Setting aside the pretty paper cutter, I rifle through what looks like receipts and notes. I pick up a broken necklace, a golden pen, an old sigil. What did I expect to find? A hand-written note where he confesses to his crimes?
I struggle to open the other drawer. It seems to be locked. I rattle it gently, but it doesn’t give. If he’s hiding something, it has to be in there.
Open, I think, tugging on the drawer handle, wincing when it creaks a little,open, you stupid lock, I can’t—
Warmth spreads through my hand and I snatch it back just as a click sounds. Breathing hard, I stare at the drawer as if it’s about to spring teeth and bite me.
Then, tentatively, I grab the handle and tug one last time.
It slides open without a sound, on well-oiled hinges, revealing a neat file of papers. Impatiently, I rifle through them and stop at a photo.
An old photo, its edges dog-eared. A family portrait, captured through a camera lens, a couple seated, surrounded by children of various ages. In the tall boy standing on the left, I think I recognize Ashton, but when I look closer, I see it’s not him. One of the girls is petting what looks like an actual live panther. Another holds a pitcher.
