He’d thought it might be easier, away from all the eyes on them – hell, between Raum and Seraphina alone there were likely a hundred well-earned judgments – but he was wrong.
Away from the noise, away from the crowd and the nerves and the god-sealed gates, there was no distracting from their own energy. They might as well be alone in this high and holy place, where the air was thin and the wind sighed through the trees and he thought about the similarities between hate and want. A couple four-letter words with the same red feelings, but one of them had left him – when? Maybe with that bright cut of Raum’s knife. (But had it ever been Bexley he hated at all? Was it not just carry-over from day, or his own burning need to rearrange the world in his wake, at least a little, just to prove he was there?)
And did any of it matter now? Maybe the end of the story justified the middle, maybe their scars cut skin and canceled sins.
Or maybe she did still intend to kill him, but hell. This much effort into it, he didn’t mind making it easy for her.
This was why Acton didn’t like to spend too much time thinking; his thoughts all chased each other around into a wicked jumble he could never untangle without making a mess. It was so much easier just to act.
Bad poetry, she said, and he grinned and ducked his head as if she’d paid him a compliment. “Seems fitting, then,” he replied, following her gaze down to his black-flecked knee with its web of scars, but he pulled his eyes back up to hers after only a moment. “for us.”
Because they were – must be – an us. And gods knew they were bad poetry; only a drunkard with no sense would write a tale like theirs, devoid of all logic.
She touched him then and it was almost a caress, if such a soft word could be used to describe anything between them. He wondered, as his skin shivered and his heart hammered his ribcage like it wanted his attention, what other soft things she knew.
Acton leaned toward her, his mouth drifting along the curve of her shoulder, the touch delicate as light. It was not all he wanted (nothing ever was), but he could wait for that – for the press of bodies, for teeth and noise.
Patience, he cautioned himself, for fuck’s sake you’re in a holy place.
At her next words, he smiled lazily against her skin. He wondered if she could feel the curve of it against her bright gold, wondered if all their meetings would be shattered-mirror reflections of their previous ones. He hoped they would.
There was her necklace, just a thin line of gold. His breath on it clouded the metal to matte for only a moment, then vanished back to gleaming. Carefully, carefully, he gave it a tug.
“I always get it right the second time.” Another echo from that night, and up here in the god-heavy air it was as good as a vow.
YOU'VE GOT YOUR FINGER ON THE TRIGGER
BUT YOUR TRIGGER FINGER'S MINE
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