Chapter Forty-Two
I awoke still on the sofa with him, the daylight warming us, the night’s dark at last abated.
My arms were slipped around his torso, his looped over the small of my back. Our legs were interlocked; my head was notched against the divot of his collarbone, my cheek pressed to his chest.
We were incredibly close. Typically, I was a light sleeper; if anyone had asked me prior to the previous day whether I thought it possible to rest so tangled up with someone else, I would have replied that I did not, nor could I ever see myself wanting to.
Our embrace felt unnatural—possessive, almost—as if even in our slumber, we had feared the other person might slip away.
Clutched them near like a childhood blanket, too afraid to let them go.
As delicately as I was able, I detached myself.
By the pale blue quality of the light filtering through the library windows, I could tell it was still early, which was just as well—the thought of having to explain my presence here to a servant, my hair loose from its caul and my body clad only in one of Noé’s shirts, filled me with an acute embarrassment I couldn’t articulate.
I let my attention wander. On the end table next to the sofa, the book Noé had read aloud from was lying open—I guessed he’d placed it there sometime during the night, though whether he’d done so while I was awake, I couldn’t recall.
It was turned to the start of the fourth chapter, a scrap of ribbon tucked into the spine to mark the place he’d left off.
I frowned. I was fairly sure I’d fallen asleep prior to the close of chapter one—far earlier than the spot he’d marked. He must have kept reading to me long after the point when I’d gone unconscious, just in case I woke up and needed comforting again.
Beside me, Noé shifted. I turned to find him watching me. He appeared as though he’d just woken up, his hair tousled and matted, his features softened by sleep’s gentle finger.
Still, his eyes were sharp. “Thinking already, are you?”
I smiled half-heartedly. “How can you be so sure?”
He returned my expression. “You are never not thinking something,” he said, propping himself up on his elbow.
“Part of me believes you will go to your death and I’ll find you after the funeral, pondering away in your coffin.
Though when it is me you are thinking about, you get a little furrow just between your brows.
” He laughed when I frowned defensively. “There,” he remarked. “Just like that.”
His cheerfulness was contagious. Glancing away, I suppressed a smile, determined not to let him ruffle me.
“I’m reflecting on the events of last night,” I said instead.
At my change of subject, he sobered, though only slightly. “Tell me.”
And so I did. When I described the attack in the turret room, a look of alarm came over him. He pushed himself up higher, his elbow on the sofa’s armrest.
“So they’re gone?” he asked once I’d finished. “The gloves.”
“Yes.” Even admitting it made me feel like a failure.
“And I’ve still no idea why the person who took them wants them—or whether they relate to Sybil’s death at all.
My original plan was to corner the thief in my room—the place where I’d said the gloves were—and question them, but they…
They outmaneuvered me.” I bit my lip, my neck burning. “I’m an idiot.”
Noé fell back. “An idiot?” he echoed. “You were the only one who took the gloves seriously to begin with. And your bait worked, at least partially.” He paused. “You say Clio denied stealing them?”
“And Eliot insists she is telling the truth.” I grunted in frustration.
“Her Wit would have made tracking the gloves a simple matter, but another witch could have found them, too. Perhaps Mireille? One of the pair was torn, and she has the ability to fix broken things. She could have sensed their damage?”
Even to me, the theory sounded weak. Noé was silent. After a moment, he shrugged and leaned back against the sofa. “You’ll figure it out.”
He sounded confident. I glanced at him sidelong. “How do you know?”
He winked at me. “Because you are Lovett Tamerlane,” he said. “And they are mere mortals.”
Our stares locked. After the way we’d woken, holding his gaze felt too intimate, like an acknowledgment of all that had passed between us. Blinking, I glanced toward the floor.
Noé cleared his throat. “You know I am leaving today,” he said. “On that gods-awful bachelor’s trip.”
His stare was searching. The trip. His hunter’s sojourn with his groomsmen, a time-honored tradition according to him; in truth, I’d forgotten all about it.
There had been a period after he’d first told me of the expedition that I’d looked forward to his absence—had counted down the days until he would leave me with all the anticipatory glee of a child awaiting a holiday. Now, though…
Well, how did I feel about it now?
In the end, lying seemed easiest. Steadily, I answered, “Yes.”
His expression was somber. “I know I can’t stop you from enacting any additional schemes while I’m away. But will you promise, at least, to be careful?”
The concern in his features made my stomach twist. “I am always careful.”
“No,” he countered thoughtfully. “You really are not.”
Shifting forward, he tucked a thumb beneath my chin, the motion so abrupt—so gentle—I could do nothing to defend against it.
“You know,” he murmured, holding me. “I am wondering when you will say it.”
I stared at him. “Say what?”
“That last night was a mistake.”
I’d briefly put aside my thoughts of last night; at his prompting, though, it all rushed back. At once, I recalled our entanglement, the sensations so intense, it was as though I were reliving them: his hands, his voice, the cold buzz of his lips. You utter sorceress.
Blushing, I adopted what I hoped was a teasing expression. “You are so convinced I will think it a mistake?”
Noé’s expression didn’t waver. “Absolutely,” he replied. “You must do so. Being with me would make you far too happy. It would run completely counter to your strict moral code of self-loathing and misery—you could never endure it.”
His response took me aback. For a moment, I was almost offended; then the indignation passed and I laughed. Shaking my head, I raised my arm to swat at him.
He grabbed my hand before I could make contact, giving me a tug.
I fell, or perhaps let myself fall, into him; there was a brief tussle, a shove, a push, and then he relented.
When our play fight was over, I was lying half on top of him, his shoulder propped up against the sofa’s back, my upper body resting on his chest.
Our noses were almost brushing. Winding his fingers through mine, he gave them a squeeze, then pitched his forehead tentatively forward so that it touched mine.
“Do you even realize what it does to me, looking at you?”
His voice sent shivers over me. Pulling away, I rolled my eyes. “You are being unbearably dramatic.”
“Am I?” Noé replied lightly. “I think I’m behaving myself quite well. I have not even mentioned the many evenings I have spent in raptures over the fragile beauty of your wrists.”
Loosely, he picked up my arm again, bringing it to his mouth. A quake went through me when he pressed his lips to the heel of my palm, though this one, at least, I managed to quell.
“Or how you have ruined all my favorite vices, and made it so I cannot enjoy a single one of them for thought of you.” Another kiss, on the inside of my elbow.
I felt my skin growing warm. “Or how when I saw your brother berating you in that pub, I felt a fury like I have never known before, and I was terrified that I might kill him.”
He lifted his head, meeting my eyes again.
Unlike previously, there was no laughter in his gaze; he was all severeness, that icy calculation I’d seen before—that I’d glimpsed upon the first day of meeting him.
It should have chilled me, but when I reached for the disgust that used to flow so willingly through my encounters with him, I could not find it.
The well seemed to have closed over; it had been replaced by something else.
Sighing, I laid a thumb against the bow of his upper lip. “This will only end in disaster.”
He smiled. I felt his mouth move against my finger, and my heart lurched. “But we are not at the end yet, are we?”
I did not have a chance to reply before he kissed me.