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Echo very rarely shows herself to people other than me.
Very rarely? She never shows herself to people other than you!
“What do you want?” I finally ask Luocre again. He looks down at me with an emotion I have never seen on his face. An emotion so incongruent with what I know him to be that it shocks me to my core.
Luocre looks uncertain.
He opens his mouth as if to answer me, and then closes it again. I don’t understand him right now.
He has been teasing me and trying to provoke me from the minute I walked into my bedroom.
That is why he is here, after all. He wants to poke me and prod me until I snap.
“What do you want, Luocre?”
Again, he doesn’t answer me.
I think again about Echo, who has stayed close to me but looks up at Luocre curiously from time to time.
Is Echo warming up to Luocre? Does Echo actually like him?
Does this mean that I could like him, too?
No! No! No!
I shudder to think that I might ever warm up to Luocre. Now that I know what I know about him, I know that I should not be having these thoughts about him.
And yet, now that he is in my room, so close to me, close enough that I can smell him, all I want is for him to taste me again like he did before.
All I want is for him to take me in whatever way he wants to.
How can I reconcile my fear of him and what he is with my desire for him? How can I be so afraid of him and yet lust for him so much?
“Luocre,” I say finally. I look up at him, and I realize that our bodies are inches apart. I can feel the heat coming off him, wafting in the air around me, wrapping around me, dragging me closer to him.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Are you asking me to leave?” His voice is low and dark and smooth and rumbling, and my nipples tighten at the sound of it, of him, and I shudder and swallow and look away from him.
“I’m saying that you shouldn’t be here. I need to get done for the day. I have an early day ahead of me tomorrow, and I need to get some rest.”
“Tell me to leave and I will.” There is a sudden, new urgency in his voice.
I swallow again.
“Please,” I whisper the word. Then I clear my throat so that I can speak more loudly. “Please leave.”
I don’t know if I imagine the look of disappointment that crosses his face. But it crosses his face so quickly that I must have imagined it.
Someone like Luocre does not feel disappointment.
He’s an assassin, for pity’s sake! He probably doesn’t feel any other emotions beyond rage and satisfaction when he finally kills someone.
Luocre nods, then takes a step toward me and closes the space between us.
Our bodies are touching, and I know that he can feel the way my chest is rising and falling quickly and unsteadily.
But then he steps away from me and quickly heads towards the door, and I gasp as he leaves because his sudden absence feels like someone has removed one of my limbs.
