Chapter 9 The Sweetest Torture #2
I was older than the others when I enrolled at Visnatus—ten years old. Most of the kids already had their cliques, and I had no interest in being in any. I had no interest in company. Company was a burden back then, before I grew up and realized intimacy was something I craved and could never have.
Now I am here, sitting in a corner amongst the rulers of our worlds. No one pays any attention to me. I think I prefer it this way because if they did, then the question would arise: What is wrong with her?
I don’t need anybody answering for me.
Azaire looks at me, looking at him. I shake my head, quickly looking down. Irrationally hoping that he saw nothing. Oddly wondering what the boy in my head is thinking.
I’m staring at the glowing marble floor, at my silver shoes to match my silver dress for the silver ball. The silver chandeliers reflect through the room, and the moonlight reflects in from the wall of windows behind me.
I sit at the very edge of the tables set for the rulers. Entirely alone, suffocated in this room.
Sometimes it feels like someone is holding my head under the water, forcing me to choke in the liquid. Then I realize it’s my own hand keeping me under. That there’s no one to blame.
As soon as I fully dive into that emotion, another crashes over me—fear. The desperate kind.
My eyes flicker, darting nervously, my muscles taut, hands clenching like I’m about to fight.
Someone is looking at another person—recognition edged with panic. They’re clinging to the hope that what they’re seeing isn’t real, that it’s a trick of the light. But beneath that hope is a bitter dread: part of them always knew.
I glance around the room, trying to pinpoint this sensation. It’s as if my powers are a radar, guiding me right to the Queen of Ilyria. She stares into the ballroom, through the dancing bodies, but I can’t see who she looks for.
Shaking her away, I try to take a sip of air without breathing in something else. Fear like smoke, love like poison.
Then a hand reaches in front of me and a knee settles by my foot.
Looking down, I see it’s Azaire who kneels before me. I avoid his gaze as I ask, “Don’t you have a partner?”
“No one that could compare to you.”
I shake my head, but I’m secretly smiling at the words. “I’m not supposed to dance with anyone,” I tell him. “In case I touch them.”
“Wendy,” he breathes from the depths of that bow, “I told you once, I was never afraid of your touch.”
The boy watches me. Dangerously, he longs, the same way I long to take Azaire’s hand.
I do exactly that, my intentions blurred. Do I wish to pull away from the boy’s yearning, or pull closer to Azaire?
It must be for Azaire. When he rises, his fingers curl tenderly around mine, making my pulse quicken.
Together, we walk to the dance floor, his hand settling on my waist. Then I’m looking up, into his eyes, and I know this is real—the way he feels and my desire to reciprocate it without fear.
This dance is nothing like the one in my mind with the boy. The faces around us hold steady, unchanging. Moonlight spills over the gowns, soft and silver, and the marble beneath my feet is cool and solid—real.
But most importantly, Azaire’s hand is real. Really holding mine.
“You know I could make you,” I say, and Azaire gives me a quizzical look. “Fear my touch. Or love me, or hate me. I could make you feel anything. That’s why you’re not supposed to touch me.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” His anxiety always spikes when he speaks to me. But it’s not like others. It’s heady, going to my brain like a drug, the same way alcohol heats blood. “It’d be a privilege if you felt enough for me to even consider doing such a thing.”
“Even if it was out of hate?” I ask. Hate for myself, I don’t say.
“Yes,” he says softly, and suddenly I become hyper aware of his hands on my body. So close to skin. “I’ve spent most of my life watching you notice other people. I want to be one of them, in any way.”
I know he does; I’ve always known. I’ve always felt him, noticed him, as he puts it.
I try not to stutter as I say, “Most of the time I’m noticing out of annoyance.”
Or jealousy. Jealousy that people can find friendship, can care for one another, can touch each other. Any number of things.
It’s with that in mind—my true desire—that I decide to add, “But I always noticed you. In a different way. I liked that you were quiet.”
Azaire smiles, then looks down, shaking his head. His heart thumps like a rabbit chased by a snake.
My hands shake in turn.
“That’s a first,” he whispers.
“I mean it,” I say, glancing at his face, willing him to look at me. When he does, our eyes collide. I swallow the lump in my throat and add, “I like it.”
His gaze shifts, searching mine—equal parts longing and something softer, almost desperate.
I hold his hand a little tighter, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my palm. His grip tightens in return, answering my silent question without words.
He won’t let me go.
“You know… at first, I liked that you saw people,” Azaire whispers.
“I thought you’d see the things I couldn’t show.
Until one day, I saw you dancing in the woods.
It was like discovering a new star. When I saw you alone, I finally saw you.
I’d had a crush on you for years and then there you were, this new person.
No longer focusing on everything, just dancing in the silence.
Exactly what I wanted—for the things I couldn’t show to be seen, I saw in you, and I just…
I could’ve watched you dance forever. ‘Till the end of days.”
His words—and the raw earnestness behind them—catch me off-guard. A flicker of something electric traces up my spine.
I think I remember that day.
I knew he was there. I always know when someone is there. But it’s different with him. I don’t want to run from him as much as I want to run from the others.
“You wanted to watch silly old me?” I laugh.
“Want to,” he says. “I want to watch you. Not that you’re silly. I think you’re just shy of perfect.” He smiles, and I can feel it in my marrow, vibrating my bones.
“Not perfect?” I whisper, half-joking, half-hoping.
“I like to think I have a keen eye for character.”
“It’s not the scar on my lip?” I laugh—the first time I’ve ever laughed about my scar.
Azaire draws closer, his gaze tracing the curve of my lips.
“I love the scar on your lip,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent.
Like this moment between us is glass, and he’s scared to shatter it.
“It’s your mark—a story you have to tell.
” He pauses, his gaze meeting mine. “I love your eyes—not just any green, but the kind that belongs to the wildest places in the worlds.”
Slowly, his hand rises up my waist, and I hold my breath as he continues, “I love your nose. Your freckles…they’re like constellations. And your smile. Gods, I love your smile. If the world was ending, and I could ask for one thing to see before it all went away, it would be that smile.”
I stare at him, silent a moment. How could he mean all this? How can I listen to his declarations, knowing without a doubt he means them, and still wonder?
How could I have ever run from this boy? I have to, and I will after this. But I don’t want to.
At a loss for words, I ask, “You think my smile is worth that?”
Azaire nods. “Rarer than gold.”
“Because I’m standoffish?” I ask, really laughing. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone at this academy thought so.
“Because it’s real,” he says.
His hand moves from my waist up to my face. Before he can settle it where I know he will, I flinch away.
Looking down, I shake my head. “You can’t touch me.”
“Okay.” Azaire lowers his hand.
“Really,” I say. “No one can.” I look up to see Ms. Ferner staring at me. I drop both my hands and step back, nearly running into another couple. I mutter my apologies, then look back at Azaire. “I’m not supposed to be dancing.”
I try to walk away. Try because Azaire’s hand is still on my waist, and he spins me back into him, holding me close.
Our chests touch.
“But I’m fine,” he whispers. “More than fine. You can feel me, can’t you?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Then feel me.” His eyes don’t move away from mine as he lifts his fingers back to my face. Right before making contact, he says, “Feel my heart leap out of my chest at the mere thought of being skin to skin with you.”
I grab his wrist, for the first time ever being thankful for the gloves. But I feel it, I do. His heart leaping. His longing.
“I want to be touched as much as you want to touch me,” I mutter, dropping his wrist and using his momentary shock to slide out of his grasp. “But I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
Though I fear being in close proximity to me will be enough to ruin him.