Chapter 28 #2
“Not in particular. I…” He stops, taking his time before his next words.
“The handful of times I’ve come back to the order’s base since taking my oaths, I’ve felt out of place.
But your being here has made things easier, somehow.
” He gestures around us. “Here, in this place, however, I could always be myself. And I wanted to show you me—who I am without Cec, without the order.”
My body warms and my stomach flutters. That’s not the answer I was expecting, but it takes a direct hit to my heart nonetheless.
Desperate to keep us distracted, I gesture at the books. “Do you at least have a favorite?”
He considers this. “I don’t. It would be no easier task to choose a favorite star in the sky.”
Oh, that’s sappy. And yet, my body betrays me, heating further at his words. In fact, my entire body aches, and not from sparring earlier.
“Why, Bes, that’s practically Shakespearean.”
When I turn to gauge his reaction, I find he’s right beside me and not across the room like I thought.
The distance I marked between us has completely evaporated, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Those damned long legs of his. I place my hand on the rolling ladder beside me so I don’t flinch back.
He reaches for a book, his chest brushing my shoulder. At the brief contact, my pulse jumps inside my skin.
“If Ansaldo were here, I’d be forced to say my favorite is The Prince by Nicolo Machiavelli.” He holds it at arm’s length, as if it might bite him.
I fight against rolling my eyes. “I can see why Ansaldo would want you to pick that one, considering the entire book is his mantra.”
Bes sighs. Though not in frustration with me, for once.
“Unfortunately, and much to everyone’s dismay, I’ve fallen prey to the bard’s words.” He places the book back, but doesn’t reach for another. “My actual favorite is Twelfth Night.”
My mouth drops open, though no words come out. I wouldn’t have expected Shakespeare at all, and if I had, I would’ve guessed one of the Histories or King Lear. Maybe even Hamlet or Macbeth. But a romance?
I’m breathless when I utter, “Are you having me on?”
He grins fondly, almost sleepily. “It has one of the greatest lines in all of literature: ‘Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.’”
I raise my brow, unimpressed. “Everyone knows that line. If it’s truly your favorite, you’ll have to do better than that.”
The grin drops from his face, and an air of seriousness envelopes him instead. His hooded gaze flicks to my lips and then captures my eyes once more.
“Perhaps this will satisfy you.”
He slowly shifts into me and my breath hitches in my chest. Surprised by his boldness, even as I welcome it, I press my back up against the shelves, tucking my hands between the wood and my backside.
His proximity is not unwelcome—in fact, I’m having trouble keeping myself from putting my hands on him—but the closer he gets, the less I’m able to think straight.
I clench the edges of the bookcase to steady myself. My heart pounds ceaselessly inside my ribcage. His dark gaze pours into mine, holding me captive.
“Make me a willow cabin at your gate,” he begins gently, voice smooth and deep, “And call upon my soul within the house,
Write loyal cantons of contemnèd love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Hallow your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out ‘Olivia!’ O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth
But you should pity me.”
Oh, I sigh, mercifully inside my own mind. His words rattle through me and sink their teeth deep into my bones. My entire body warms at the deep rumbles of his voice. He speaks the bard’s prose so eloquently, breathes new life into them.
I know the scene, of course, but I don’t waste time on the implications of Bes quoting that particular soliloquy. I merely allow the words to wind their way along my heart.
Too enraptured to notice before, one of his hands has come to rest on the ladder rung inches from my cheek, the other on a shelf unfairly close to my hip. Him not touching me might constitute as torture.
His movements I could mistake for only a primal desire, but his dark eyes betray him. In them, I find understanding, warmth, softness, curiosity, and something more. Something I won’t dare name.
His nearness casts a hot, dizzying spell over me. I shouldn’t want this—want him—as much as I do. If I truly consider what’s brought Bes and I to this point, it’s been a lie in some form or another. In this moment, though, I don’t care about any of that.
I have only one thought in my head, and it’s how much I want him to touch me. I ache for it.
When I don’t make a move to stop him, he shifts into me further. A lock of his dark hair falls across his face as he dips his head painfully unhurried. My grip tightens on the shelf as he stops right before our lips touch. So close, not nearly close enough.
Waiting for him, my body has become both heavy and light, and I swear I might burst if he doesn’t do something to end my suffering. I lift my chin a fraction, my fingers desperate to reach for him, to feel him, even as I refuse to move them.
His hands haven’t moved either, and while I don’t think I’m misreading this, I don’t want to push him. If I do, I might push him away altogether—
His eyes flutter closed, and he jars me out of my spiral with one word, one perfect syllable: “Mel.”
I have a visceral, unmitigated reaction to it, of hearing my name on his lips for the first time—my back arches, releasing my hands and forcing my chest and hips to graze his.
He sucks in an uneven breath and his eyes fly open.
Want pools in my stomach at the sound, from the way our bodies touch.
I place my hands on his chest, his heart thrumming beneath my palms.
When our noses brush, I swear my breath stalls, my eyes shuttering on their own accord.
A moment passes before his lips sweep across mine, soft and warm and perfect. Just as I imagined they would be.
His gentleness sets my entire body on fire, even as I crave more.
I grasp at his shirt to bring him nearer.
His fingers beside my hip slide into my belt loop, dragging me closer still.
His thumb brushes the material of my button-up directly above my waist band, taking its time with long, languid strokes.
My fingers press against the base of his neck, gently digging into his skin at the sensation.
In response, his other hand takes its rightful place against my cheek, his touch so heady I can no longer think.
He slides his thumb beneath my chin and presses upward, drawing my lips deeper against his and capturing me wholly.
I gasp at his touch, his boldness. My chest grazes his again as he opens his mouth to match me, deepening the kiss.
A small moan pierces the silence, pleasure zinging along my limbs and pooling in my core.
I can barely breathe, and I don’t care.
God, I’ve wanted this for so long, pictured it happening more times than I care to admit. But even my imagination couldn’t have prepared me for this. Bes and I fit together like two puzzle pieces; when I move, he moves, and I don’t want it to stop. I never want it to stop.
My hand shifts to the back of his neck. Even now, I ache to be closer to him.
He seems to feel the same: tipping his head slightly, he flicks his tongue against mine.
Oh God. I press my hips into his, the warmth in my core pooling lower and lower…
right as his thumb brushes the slight curve of my breast. My entire being ignites, the ache inside me becoming untenable. I—
“Bes, where’d you run off to?” a familiar, faraway voice wonders.
“Dammit,” Bes growls against my lips.
My eyes wrench open.
He jerks away from me, the movement so quick, I could swear it’s inhuman. Another blink and he’s at the archway, tucking his hair manically behind his ears a few times before poking his head out. I shiver at the absence of his warmth, of the confusion sweeping through me.
Why did he stop?
“For the gods’ sakes, what do you want, Cec?”
“What are you doing in there?” Cec wonders.
“Nothing important,” Bes insists, his words piercing my heart with a sharpened blade. “Can’t a man have some peace and quiet for five bloody seconds?”
Cec says something in return, but I can’t hear him over the torrent between my ears.
Nothing important.
Now that Bes no longer poisons me with his proximity, my thoughts swirl like a tornado inside my mind, the threads winding around each other until they’re nothing but a tangled mess.
Anger and shame quickly extricate themselves from the chaos and make themselves known.
Jesus, I’m an idiot. I’m not important to Bes. He was only using me as a distraction—something to take his mind off the rules and responsibilities he has when he’s forced to be here. The place he hates most in this world. And I fell for it.
My gut clenches. I’m no one’s distraction.
Before I can consider the consequences of what I’m about to do, I stomp across the stone floor to where Bes blocks the threshold between the first edition room and the rest of the Archives.
With as much force as I can muster considering how hard my body trembles, I shove his shoulder with mine.
He stumbles forward a tick but easily regains his balance, grunting as I push past him.
I whirl on him before he can say a word. I’m closer than I want to be, considering the heat still lingering in my body from that kiss—best goddamn kiss of my entire life—but I can’t back down now.
“Is that all I am to you?” I demand. “Five seconds of damned peace and quiet? Not important? A fucking distraction?”
Bes blinks as if he doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t understand. He’s not trapped down here against his will after learning his only family lied to him his entire life.
Comprehension dawns a second later and he shakes his head. “No, that’s what I—you know Cec—”
“I don’t give a damn about Cec!” I practically scream. It echoes down the hallway, where no doubt the cousin in question has been eavesdropping for Lord knows how long. “And I don’t give a damn about you.”
He flinches, as if I’ve struck him physically. I can’t believe I fell for this act.
He reaches for my hand. “Mel—”
“Don’t call me that—don’t ever call me that again,” I seethe. My anger is subsiding, and I need to finish this before I lose my nerve. “You’ve lost the privilege.”
With that, I spin on my heels and try not to run back to my room. I think I hear Cec’s voice, but he only receives silence in return.
It’s better this way, I tell myself. He would’ve broken my heart, or I would’ve broken his. Now, neither of us will get hurt.
The tears gently stinging my cheeks warn me it’s a little late for that. Now, with this kiss, I’m afraid I’ve gone in too deep to try and swim back up.