BEXLEY BRIAR
my carnivore heart comes out after dark -
Bexley stretches out like a cat over the sun-warmed cobblestone, a long, graceful arc of movement which collapses within the next moment as she relaxes into drowsiness again. Warmth settles deep into her bones; it washes over her skin.
When her eyes flutter closed, this feels like home.
We’ll match, he says. Bexley smiles faintly. (No one can match this, she thinks—the thing in her chest that is blacker than black, the feeling in her stomach that sinks deeper than river-stones. No one can match the threat of tears ever-present in the corner of her eyes. No one can match the scar. No one can match the still-living, already-ruined body she inhabits, like an ill-fitting coat from a seamstress who only knew her as a child.)
Sun filters in like diamonds through her wave of curled lashes, sharp, bright shards of white that no amount of blinking seems to dislodge. “That’s nice of you,” she murmurs back. “But if I do make an impression, I think most people find it—irritating.”
She thinks of Acton and their smoky walk down the first mountain; she thinks of Tor’s scathing glances, the open teeth in his chest; she thinks of Maxence’s derision and Seraphina’s distrust and—
Bexley inhales sharply. Her chest hurts with the market-smell of cinnamon and incense and whatever perfume lingers on Michael’s sky-blue scarf. Suddenly her brain goes black; a soft, pretty blackness that swarms like butterflies; Bex blinks rapidly, and her ears ring like she is dying, and the world’s movement picks up speed, then stops completely. Her eyes close.
Calm down, she murmurs to herself, calm down, calm down, calm down.
And then, just like that, the world’s greatest actress, the sickness abates. Bexley smiles back up at him—a faint, warm, childish thing.
“I don’t think you’re unremarkable,” she says. For once there is no decoration to it. Her voice is plain—intent—completely honest.
For once she is not interested in hiding.
@
