Chapter 4
It sends something akin to lightning shooting through your veins, to touch him like this. The heat. The blood. You can feel his surprise; and, a few seconds later, recognition. You can even, you think, feel the very moment he decides to kiss you back, feel it in the way he bends lower, his stiff posture melting, allowing you to come down from your tip-toed stance.
His lips and tongue are every bit as surprising as the rest of him—no silvery chill, but hot and fierce and tender all at once. The frantic press of your palms against his cheeks softens to a different kind of desperate, and in spite of the horror and disgust you know you should be feeling, you find yourself instead leaning in further, pressing your torso against his. An arm snakes around your waist, and you find yourself wishing there were fewer layers of fabric there, wishing there were fewer boundaries between you, wishing, wishing, wanting—
Who can say why Shari’s memory comes to you at this very moment? You don’t know. But come to you it does. And just like that, it all comes rushing back: who he is. What he’s done.
Why you’re here.
He pulls back from the embrace, one hand raised to his mouth; you nearly stumble from the abruptness. You watch as he furrows that lovely, lovely brow. He dabs at his lip with a few fingers. Pulls them away red.
It’s only then you realize you bit him.
You can feel your heart in your throat, your stomach where your heart should be, and your courage nowhere to be found. Kissing him had been a long shot, fueled by adrenaline; a desperate attempt to buy yourself some time. Biting him had been some quiet, senseless part of your brain hellbent on getting some kind of revenge, no matter how small. Clearly, nothing you’ve done in the past five minutes has been thought out in any capacity. And if you hadn’t known you were going to die before, you’re convinced now.
He looks up at you with fear or curiosity, you can’t quite tell which. And then something...slips. Shifts, behind his eyes. It’s so quick you’d almost believe you imagined it, but you’re not imagining the new energy about him. His skin paler, his eyes bluer than before (and you were so certain they’d been green). Sleek. Composed. He smirks.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I haven’t been surprised like that in quite some time.”
You’re afraid he might reach out to touch you again. You’re even more afraid that he might get up and leave without another word. The fear has your paralyzed on either side; you can only watch, wordless, as he wipes the smear of blood from his hand and turns back to face you.
“I’d very much like for you to keep surprising me. I’ll see you again tomorrow, at dusk.” When you make no move to respond, he begins to walk—slowly, steadily—in your direction. “Perhaps you’ll be a bit more talkative after you’ve had some time to settle in? I’m curious as to whether your bark is worse than your bite.”
You barely breathe until he’s passed you in favor of the door. When you hear the heavy thud of it settling, closed behind him—
I’ll see you again tomorrow, at dusk.
It takes every ounce of energy you don’t have to drag your heavy feet to the bed, to climb up and burrow under the pile of jeweled silks and rare furs.
I’ll see you again, tomorrow
tomorrow
at dusk, tomorrow.
It isn’t until you are right at the brink of sleep that you allow yourself to think it, to think the thing that he said without saying outright:
He’s going to let you live.
You’re going to live another day.