Chapter Twenty-One Monika #3
He stares at me for another while. Another long while.
The sunset has started its descent and bathes his skin in twilight.
The blue appears plum in this light. It’s breathtaking.
He’s breathtaking. Far more beautiful than he ever was as a human right now to me.
Because that human was fake. And this version of him is starting to feel real.
“I’ve been thinking . . .” He sits up and clears his throat.
“Thinking? Uh-oh. That sounds ominous.”
He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t like how we left our meeting.”
“I didn’t like anything about that meeting.”
“That’s a lie.” He cocks an eyebrow and an edge of his mouth.
I heat but refuse to dignify that with an answer.
He sets the bottle down on the wooden live-edge table positioned between us. He sits abruptly forward on the lip of the papasan chair, and I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t tip the whole thing over. “I won’t kill Mr. Singkham.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad.” I sound sarcastic, but I really am.
“And I won’t change your contract.” He rubs his chin.
“Good . . .” I start—I should have waited for him to finish.
“I’m gonna annul it. I’m quitting the Champion shit.”
I spit my wine out again, and this time it splatters the table between us.
He glances down at it. “Am I gonna need to get you a bib?”
“For real?”
“Yes. You’ve spit out more wine than you’ve drunk.”
“Not about that,” I mutter. “The, ya know . . . no-more-heroic-photo-ops thing?”
“Don’t act so surprised. It was your idea.”
I shake my head. “I definitely didn’t think—”
“I’d quit?” He stares off into the distance, huffing through flared nostrils.
“I didn’t either. I’ve been Taranis so long.
Thought it might be easier to take over the COE, be the Champion.
But you were right. I don’t want strings, I don’t have to have strings.
It’s gonna take me some time to figure out who I am without ’em.
And nobody ever said I didn’t want my picture taken anymore. ”
“Figures.”
“But just by you.”
I smile at him, feeling proud. I’m used to being complimented on my photographs, but not like this. This feels . . . different. More personal. More tender in ways I’m not sure either of us hardened souls is used to.
“And the murder thing? Does that mean Mr. Singkham’s off the hook?”
“For now,” he grumbles, sounding displeased.
I laugh, irrationally elated that the male I’m starting to really crush hard on has admitted that he might not want to murder my boss. The list of things wrong with me might be getting longer, but I can’t deny that right now I’m happy.
Without prompting and without warning, I stand up from my little couch, drop my blanket, and go to him on the papasan chair.
He leans back as I take a seat in his lap, curling up there into a ball against his chest. I peck his lips one at a time, watch his eyes close as he breathes out a sound that is pure satisfaction.
I kiss my way along his jaw and against his neck, whisper, “I see you. And I like what I see.”
“This ugly mug?”
“Everything.”
He shivers a little and when his lips part, I dive in, kissing him in earnest. We make out until my jaw starts to tire. It’s sweet, though, filled with none of the explosiveness of our earlier couplings. And it’s nice. I daresay I’d go so far as to call it romantic.
After a while, it’s Darius who extracts us from the slippery slope we’re sliding down. He gives me a series of quick pecks along the temple and says, “I gotta go check on the eggplant. Can you get us some plates from your place, unless you want me to bring my masochistic ones?”
“Sure . . . Oh wait, no. My door is stuck. I can’t get in from the balcony, so just bring your plates—and also don’t abandon me here,” I tease.
He gets that pissed look again, his brows furrowing.
“I’m kidding,” I add.
But he just shakes his head, and when he kisses me next, it’s so different from any kiss he’s given me before.
It’s different from any kiss I’ve ever had.
It’s pure tenderness. Just the press of his soft purple lips to my mouth.
His lips are cool, but his tongue snakes out to lick my bottom lip just once, quickly, and is so warm.
I’m smiling and my eyes have closed. I didn’t mean to shut them. It just feels nice.
“I know I’m an asshole, but I wanna be your asshole.” There’s a pause. My eyes fly open. Our gazes lock. “That didn’t sound right.”
I buck with laughter, my whole body convulsing with it. I catch myself on his T-shirt, clinging to it as tears fill my eyes. Through my own laughter, I can feel his body shaking with laughter too. “You’re an idiot,” I cackle.
“Wanna be that for you too,” he says in a low voice, but his arm comes around me and his mouth presses against the top of my head. He starts to stand, my body still cradled in his grip. “I don’t know how not to be a villain, baby girl, but I’m not gonna let you fall.”
My heart squeezes. I want nothing more than to tear it out of my chest and give it to him as an offering.
“You believe me?” he asks, taking a step back and stroking his claw lightly over my cheek.
I nod. “I do. At least, I’m going to try. I also want to help you figure out what else you want to do besides Champion stuff. What you want to do as Darius.”
“I know you will, baby.” He reels me back in and plants a sloppy kiss on my forehead. “In the meantime, I’m gonna work on not tearing my hair and heart out every time you go on assignment, all right?”
Tell him. Tell him about the spying. Fuck. If there was ever a time to confess, it would be here, now. I open my mouth. “All right.” Womp womp wommmmmmp.
“I am warning you, though, someday we’re gonna talk about that other contract you refused to sign.” Without waiting for a response, he leaves me with a hammering heart.
He flies off, returning a few moments later with a steaming tray of eggplant Parmesan. He dishes it out, and the salty, savory taste and the incredible smell distracts me from more dangerous conversations as we slip into easier ones.
He keeps the wine flowing, and we talk late into the night about everything and anything. He tells me about his prim and proper “host” family, who were wealthy and status driven and so ecstatic to have a Champion for a kid that they treated him like a shiny trophy. I understand why he hates them.
I tell him about my family and what it was like growing up as a third culture kid. Well, we both were, in a sense—a fact that bonded us further.
We talked about the Champions, speculating over who will turn next, and if any of the villains might.
Hearing him talk about the Wyvern and Mr. Singkham and Ms. Lemon makes me laugh, despite my misgivings—my lies.
He holds them in very little regard. I tell him I kinda like the Wyvern, and he admits that he kinda likes the big idiot too.
We talk until the sunset burns away the light and indigo comes to cover the world.
As night truly settles over us, I invite him inside, like a horny idiot.
Instead of accepting outright, he wrenches open the door to my balcony, shoves me inside, and kisses me in that tender way.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers against my lips as I swoon toward him.
“What’s tomorrow?” I ask dazedly after him as he heads to my balcony and gathers our dirty dishes and the tray with the rest of the eggplant Parmesan.
“I’m taking you on another date.” He pauses over the threshold.
“You should let me take you on a date.”
He cocks his head, considering giving up control . . . and I watch as he finally gives in. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”
“I promise it won’t be torture,” I say, wondering if I should take him to an art gallery, dinner, a slasher flick—my favorite—or something else entirely.
He just grunts; then, before he leaves, he says, “Better not be, or you won’t like your punishment.”
I’m giddy as a schoolgirl until I check my phone—my new phone—and see an email marked Urgent from Mr. Singkham waiting at the top of my inbox.
Ms. Neumann, the details for your next mission are attached.
Shit. Next Friday. Five p.m. And I still haven’t told Darius about any of it.