She has always been a selfish girl. For many years it had not bothered her; for many years she had thought it was part of her charm, a continuation of the princess act, the horrible spell of her brattiness. For many of her years she had flaunted it like a pearl necklace and indulged it like a teething child: now it’s something that sinks like cement in her stomach, something that makes her want to cry of embarrassment. How could she ever have been proud of this? Her head spins as she thinks of the things she would do to hear Moira say I choose you. They are such different people, and Bexley is so—sinful. How can they possibly be good for each other? And how can she ever be worthy of someone so much better than her, so much easier to love?
My cousin. Something—the clenching in her jaw loosens and so does the grit of her teeth—maybe it’s relief? It feels like letting go. Oh. It’s the relinquishment of jealousy. (Selfishness, again. She had done the same thing with Acton—bristled at the idea that even if she were his last, she had not been his first. How dare he not have seen her coming. How dare he not have waited forever.) Bexley tries to clock her breath, but it comes out in a whoosh that shakes with the weight of her consolation. She sinks her head deeper into the curve of Moira’s spine and lets her cheek fall against the Night girl’s red shoulder with a blink of deep relief; her heart beats slow and deep in the pits of her chest, pulsing from her ribcage and into Moira’s.
The thing that passes between them is pain in every sense of the word. Pain of loss, pain of grief, pain of the past rising up with magic teeth like a snake. She had thought she would be numb to it by now, but it’s stronger than ever, the whole rainbow spectrum of emotions crashing through her with the force of a sun and a moon and the thousand tidal waves that follow; it is all she can do to grit her teeth and withstand it as each nerve turns alternatingly hot and cold, fearsome and relieved, bright and then deepest dark. Light flutters in mandalas over the back of her eyelids. Moira smells like home. Like jasmine and sand. Her body shines with the warmth of something sweet, and it melds perfectly with the warmth of Bexley’s throat resting on her back. I am tired, Bexley thinks, of losing. I will not lose again. Her mouth tastes not like flowers but salt and iron.
Moira’s gaze meets hers over the curve of her shoulder, and Bexley feels it from her head down to her hips. Every muscle tenses. She almost shudders at the intensity of the bright yellow eyes that look back at her, equal parts amazed and unsettled. The space between them is negligible, if there’s even a word for it. From here she could name each one of Moira’s perfect black curls if she wanted to. (She wants to.) In the dim light of the foyer, there is nothing worth focusing on but the curl of Moira’s lashes, the soft curve of her lips, the smell of cinnamon and chocolate that clings to her like the best kind of perfume. Bexley’s eyes, as they watch, are wide and soulful, and Solterra’s golden girl would be embarrassed if she knew just how sincerely her emotions are visible.
“Of course not,” she says softly, the sound rumbling through her throat and against Moira’s skin in the place where her lips are pressed to the emissary’s shoulder. Her head is starting to pound. “Nothing you can say would be wrong.” And it’s true. Deep in the blackest parts of her heart she knows it’s true, that everything, anything Moira does would be okay with her. There is something starting to move in her stomach, a soft, frenzied kind of desire, and Bexley’s ears are ringing as she tries to tell herself to slow down.
Don’t ruin this like everything else.
My cousin. Something—the clenching in her jaw loosens and so does the grit of her teeth—maybe it’s relief? It feels like letting go. Oh. It’s the relinquishment of jealousy. (Selfishness, again. She had done the same thing with Acton—bristled at the idea that even if she were his last, she had not been his first. How dare he not have seen her coming. How dare he not have waited forever.) Bexley tries to clock her breath, but it comes out in a whoosh that shakes with the weight of her consolation. She sinks her head deeper into the curve of Moira’s spine and lets her cheek fall against the Night girl’s red shoulder with a blink of deep relief; her heart beats slow and deep in the pits of her chest, pulsing from her ribcage and into Moira’s.
The thing that passes between them is pain in every sense of the word. Pain of loss, pain of grief, pain of the past rising up with magic teeth like a snake. She had thought she would be numb to it by now, but it’s stronger than ever, the whole rainbow spectrum of emotions crashing through her with the force of a sun and a moon and the thousand tidal waves that follow; it is all she can do to grit her teeth and withstand it as each nerve turns alternatingly hot and cold, fearsome and relieved, bright and then deepest dark. Light flutters in mandalas over the back of her eyelids. Moira smells like home. Like jasmine and sand. Her body shines with the warmth of something sweet, and it melds perfectly with the warmth of Bexley’s throat resting on her back. I am tired, Bexley thinks, of losing. I will not lose again. Her mouth tastes not like flowers but salt and iron.
Moira’s gaze meets hers over the curve of her shoulder, and Bexley feels it from her head down to her hips. Every muscle tenses. She almost shudders at the intensity of the bright yellow eyes that look back at her, equal parts amazed and unsettled. The space between them is negligible, if there’s even a word for it. From here she could name each one of Moira’s perfect black curls if she wanted to. (She wants to.) In the dim light of the foyer, there is nothing worth focusing on but the curl of Moira’s lashes, the soft curve of her lips, the smell of cinnamon and chocolate that clings to her like the best kind of perfume. Bexley’s eyes, as they watch, are wide and soulful, and Solterra’s golden girl would be embarrassed if she knew just how sincerely her emotions are visible.
“Of course not,” she says softly, the sound rumbling through her throat and against Moira’s skin in the place where her lips are pressed to the emissary’s shoulder. Her head is starting to pound. “Nothing you can say would be wrong.” And it’s true. Deep in the blackest parts of her heart she knows it’s true, that everything, anything Moira does would be okay with her. There is something starting to move in her stomach, a soft, frenzied kind of desire, and Bexley’s ears are ringing as she tries to tell herself to slow down.
Don’t ruin this like everything else.
Bexley
and love doubled is madness
and love doubled is madness
