chapter twenty
THE CREATURE
T oday, I found her in the greenhouse.
The gravel crunching under my shoes gave my position away outside the doorway.
“Silas, the greenhouse is glass. I can see you.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
I was hiding. I assumed that she was not paying attention. Turning the corner, I leaned casually against the doorframe of the entrance.
The greenhouse was small, but that did not stop her from putting as many plants as she could inside. It was an impressive collection, but I knew better than to get close to anything she kept around.
Alina was sitting in the corner of the bright glass room, a book clutched in those elegant fingers.
Today, she wore white. It was less kept than her normal stuffy attire, showing off her lovely neck and that pale skin that flushed at the slightest temperature change.
The light attire made her eyes flash an impossibly light blue, like I was looking into ice covering a lake, but even colder than that.
I wished I had spent even the smallest amount of time as a painter to solidify this moment, as if no one would believe the sight of the specter before me.
She would make the most beautiful apparition, already haunting every corner of my mind.
Her nimble fingers flipped another page. In her mouth hung a cigarette, unlit.
“You know, the enjoyable part of smoking is lighting the cigarette.” I approached cautiously, though she did not look to be in a running mood this morning. I was close enough to have caught her scent clearly without the adrenaline and blood clouding it.
She smells like black cherries and cyanide.
“I ran out of matches,” she said simply, flipping a page.
“Is that why you don’t seem in a rush to escape? You were banking on me having a light?”
“Yes.” She used her mouth to tilt the cigarette up to me, not peeling those eyes from her book.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my mechanical lighter, flicking the wheel to spark a flame.
She finally pulled her attention from her literature to lean in, puffing the cigarette as the tip cherried.
It was easy to fall for those misleading lips—so soft, but hiding a sharp tongue like no other.
My urge to rip her apart faded every day I pursued her, but I was sure her urge to dissect me and jar my insides grew in tandem.
As she pulled back, I dragged another chair out to sit at a safe distance, lighting my own coffin nail against the cool air.
The morning air nipped at my face in contrast with the bitter smoke. It was no wonder why she liked it out here. Birds fluttered about their waking hours, and the dew coated the greenhouse glass, giving a soft glow to the humble workspace.
I would bother her, but she was so bewitching like this—absorbed in herself, confident enough not to flee, but intelligent enough to have several weapons hidden on her person no doubt.
Against my higher urges, I chose to let her be, to admire her in the open for once.