Chapter 45 There’s Always A Past, Hardly A Future #3
She doesn’t flinch or hesitate, though her skin on mine nearly makes me do both.
It’s absurd. I’ve had her pressed against me, felt her beneath me, mapped the line of her throat with my mouth—committed every reaction to memory like something sacred.
Yet with the single touch of a finger, she undoes me.
How is it possible to want someone as deeply as I want her—and how does she wish for me in return, given everything I am and all that I’ve done?
“We?” I ask.
“Me,” she corrects with a sly smile.
“How do you want to live?” I ask.
Desdemona drops my hand and glances out the large window at the rolling snowy mountains beyond the castle grounds.
“The septic isn’t great,” she says, “because of what it represents. But the land is pretty sometimes. The mountain region was beautiful. I think I could do it again—hunt for my meals, hike to the stream for water.”
“You want to go back to what you had before?” I ask. “Why? Why not dream of something more?”
“Because something more always gets complicated.” She shrugs, glancing back at me. “What would you have, then? How do you want to live?”
“The mountain doesn’t seem so bad,” I say with a smile.
“It doesn’t, does it?”
“I’d go on the hike with you for water. But I’d carry it all back. You can warm it with your magic, for bathing.”
Desdemona smiles, and it outshines the sun and moon, like they’re nothing. I’m convinced she could set the whole room alight with her teeth alone.
“You’re dreaming of bathing now, Aibek?” she asks.
“You’re a little…” I bat my hand under my nose.
She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I’m dreaming of it, too.”
“I’m not sure I could eat rodents, though,” I say.
“The possums?” She almost laughs, and I realize how much I miss that sound. I once thought it was the most intoxicating noise in the world—and now it’s been ages since I’ve heard it.
I want to beg for it.
“They’re not so bad,” she says. “But I’m sure the mountains would have something else—I didn’t hunt yet when I lived there.”
“When did you start?” I ask, curious about all that she is.
Desdemona presses her lips together. “In the Welding Village,” she says. “It was harder there for my mom to support us. She’s a Light Folk and all…”
“Could we get by with hunting and hikes?” I ask.
“If we had enough to trade, yeah.”
I tell myself to keep my distance, to refrain from reaching for her again. And yet, I’m unable. I need the proof of her beneath my hands, needing to know she’s real... that this—whatever we are—exists beyond what I see.
She lets me pick up her hand. Every inch of her skin feels like electricity under mine as I play with her fingers—the deadliest fingers to ever exist—and I twist them between mine.
“Would you still use knives?” I ask. “Or your magic?”
Des frowns, watching our fingers as she shakes her head. “I don’t… I don’t know.”
I press my thumb into her palms, massaging them.
“That feels good.”
“I could do this every day after you hunt,” I say. “Then I could cook what you catch.”
“That’s compelling.” She smiles, tipping her head back slightly.
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted, believe it or not.”
“Poverty?” she asks sarcastically.
I shake my head, glancing around my room—the white dresser adorned with silver, the paintings covering the blue wallpaper. This room where I’ve been trapped my entire life, and now, trapped with her.
My voice is low as I answer, “To be done with the politics and fear.”
To be with you, I don’t say.
Desdemona is quick to reply, “We could do it. We have to go to Folkara anyway. We could just… stay.”
What I want isn’t possible—it hardly ever is.
“I can’t leave Lilac,” I say, looking back at her. “Leiana’s dead. She needs someone with her when she becomes queen.”
“Yeah,” Desdemona whispers. “I understand.”
?
Without a word, I follow Desdemona to the dungeon. Last night, I brought us close; I couldn’t stop myself. The little self-control I had let me watch over Desdemona before she came back to life.
Now, as we reach the dungeon, the muscles in my jaw finally unclench. My fingers, clutching the Soul Ruby relentlessly, finally find ease.
Cynthia lies on the floor of her cell. For a moment, I think she’s dead and begin to mourn her.
Then she coughs, squints her eyes open, and I stand taller, fetching the broach.
I rip the little stone from the metal and throw it at Cynthia’s feet.
Her hands shake as she tries to reach forward, unable to.
I consider opening the cell and kicking it toward her, though I don’t know what she’s capable of.
She drags herself forward, at last grasping the small stone.
The moment it’s in her hands, her pale skin warms and her gray hair darkens.
She sits taller, her hands steady now. Most peculiarly, her eyes shift from turquoise back to light blue.
Then she looks at me, and I can feel that the favor hasn’t been paid.
She’s about to say as much, though I know she doesn’t have to utter a word.
“You have to plan on letting me keep it for this to work,” Cynthia drawls.
Desdemona sinks to her knees in front of the captive. “Tough luck,” she says.
The knife Desdemona tucked up her sleeve swipes across Cynthia’s throat.