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“Why don’t we take a break from that”—he nods toward the grimoire behind me—“for a while, and try some reading for pleasure.”
My heart deflates a bit, because he doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand that there’s no such thing for me. It doesn’t matter if the content between the pages is life-altering, thrilling—I don’t have access to it, and I never will.
Nox crosses the room, taking a swig from the canister attached to his belt.
“I can’t believe I just told you I had a headache and you didn’t offer to share,” I say. When he wrinkles his brow, confused, I nod toward the canister.
“Oh, this? It would only make your headache worse in the end,” he says, though his grin is tight-lipped.
Nox attaches his canister to his waist and returns with a leather-bound book that’s rather tattered and looks as though it’s suffered under the oily fingers of plenty of readers. Then he plops down on the floor, propping his back up against the dais, and beckons me to sit next to him.
When I do, peering over his shoulder to try to decipher the words, he shakes his head. Before I know what’s happening, he’s wrapped his arm around me and pulled me into him. My heart practically stops, but I tuck my head into his shoulder all the same. “Now close your eyes.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I can hardly read with my eyes open.”
Nox chuckles, then teases, “Fates, Blaise. Hasn’t anyone ever read aloud to you before?”
I close my eyes and allow myself to settle into him. A yawn escapes my mouth, the aftermath of my tears combined with the warmth of Nox’s body lulling me into an ease I’ve yet to experience since waking in this dungeon.
“My father tried once, but my tutors told him not to.”
Nox goes still, his chest ceasing to budge. “Why did they tell him that?” he finally asks.
“Apparently I was severely behind my peers. They claimed that if my father read aloud to me, I would use that as a crutch. They said if I wanted access to books, I would have to apply myself and figure out how to read the words myself.”
Nox’s shoulders tense. “Your tutors sound lovely.”
“Well, we can’t all have a Gunter, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
When Nox reads,I find I like the way the words seem to dance. There’s a rhythm to the prose, a cadence so unlike everyday speech, it’s difficult to believe at times that the words aren’t set to music.
Several minutes in, and I’m no longer hearing the words at all. I’m simply seeing.
Seeing the shimmer of a dragon’s scale, and the flash of lightning loosed from its tongue. I’m hearing the clash of swords in battle, feeling the heat of healing hot springs against my skin. I’m frightened and inspired and aggrieved and triumphant, and by the time the story ends, I wish it would continue on forever.
By the end of the story, I find I’ve scooted down further into the floor, resting my head on Nox’s leg. He’s running his fingers through my hair absentmindedly as we sit in silence, as if we’re both trying to grasp onto the world of the story a little while longer.
The caress of his fingers against my scalp is so pleasant, I feel I could fall asleep like this. That perhaps I could drift off into this world he’s opened up for me—a world where the heroes defeat their villains and love is requited, and when the struggle is overcome, the heroes are rewarded with a happy ending.
Silly servant girl, only princesses get happy endings.
I suck in a breath at the same moment Nox asks, “Are you asleep?”
I clear my throat, the fog of Nox’s lulling voice and his warm touch dissipating, the panic of allowing myself to become so vulnerable in front of him stirring anxiety within me.
This is just like me. Just like the Blaise I’ve always been, trusting the male whose literal job is to torture me. Who values me only because of the parasite that lurks within the shadows of my mind.
I shoot straight up, placing as much distance between myself and Nox as possible. He frowns, and confusion sweeps over his impeccable features. I try not to let it affect me, but am rather unsuccessful. He glances down at his hand, where my hair was entangled just a moment ago, and his leg where my head was resting as if he’s feeling their absence. “Did I overstep?” he asks, his voice calm but reticent.
I swallow, but I can’t bring myself to answer his question. Not when another question lies beneath the surface.Did I overstep, and does it have something to do with why you freaked out when you thought someone might have touched you when you were Cinderella?
Cinderella. “What day is it?” I ask.
Nox blinks, clearly confused. But then understanding washes over his expression like snow slipping from the side of a steep mountain slope. “The final day of the mooncycle.”
“Right.” I bring my knees to my chest. Apparently I think the pressure from my bony kneecaps will somehow express the anxiety bulging in my ribcage, like a fingernail to a zit.
