Chapter 16
sixteen
I wander the church by myself. A mad woman.
When Mother first got sick, she would stand at the foot of my bed, drenched in sweat and speaking nonsense.
That is the first time I felt what it was like to be truly alone.
To realize there was no one else to walk the weary world with me. And now, the feeling is only stronger.
The confessional box looms before me. It is nothing more than a warped relic in this dead world, varnish peeling away and leaving behind a sickly, darkened surface that only seems to absorb the red light leeching in through the high windows.
I clench the bell in my fist and study the wood grain, the small carvings on the door of saints and sinners alike.
I could burn it. The bell. There are candles and matches in the vestry. I could hold it out over the flame, watch the handle turn to ash, the metal to liquid. Take it in my hand—never mind the heat—and throw it into some great, dead pool, where it would sink to the bottom and never be seen again.
I close my eyes and picture Mother. She stands at the edges of my vision like a ghost, and I go somewhere far away, somewhere no one can find me except her. Her fingers in my hair, her breath on my cheek.
Chase Death, my dearest. That way, he will never catch you.
I am trying.
Father’s words cut sharp in my mind. Do you have something to confess?
I bite the oily pink folds of my mouth, open my eyes to the dark wood of the confessional, and allow the anger to fill up all my sad and empty places.
It is an emotion that makes sense. More sense than the grief, the fear, and uncertainty churning in my guts.
I know what to do with my anger. Everything else just sits there like a stone at the pit of my stomach.
Grief for Mother, for who Father used to be, for how they used to love me…
My eyes flood with tears, and I blink them back, tucking the bell into my pocket.
“Adelaide, are you all right?”
It is Ransom’s voice. I have half forgotten about him. Wiping my eyes, I turn.
“I’m fine.” The words come out in a rush, breathless and false.
Awareness brushes through his gaze—the knowledge I am lying. That I am far from anything fine. He stretches his long, broad arms and yawns, sleep gathering violet beneath his eyes.
“Bram relieved me sometime in the night, though who could tell with all the bloody red light.” He stands to his feet, fisting his jacket.
His hair is tousled, shirt crumpled and stained. I sigh with something similar to exhaustion but also like need. It clings to the back of my throat. The desire to be wanted.
Here, in the church with Ransom, I can almost pretend we are back home, our interaction delightfully domestic.
The garden at night, when he wrapped his hand about my waist and drew me in so close I could almost taste him on the air.
Gin, mint, and scented geraniums. Heat flushes my cheeks.
The gardens of Blackbourne are a reality so far removed from the one I stand in now.
It never occurred to me that I could be happy.
Ever really. Yet here I am, losing myself in the aliveness of Lord Ransom Black’s eyes.
He catches my gaze and grins, eyes blurring toward something akin to hunger. “Did you sleep well?”
I stifle a laugh. The answer should be obvious by the bags beneath my eyes. “No, not really. Did you?”
He brushes past me, close enough that I catch the scent of him—all ink, roots beneath dirt, and the stale tang of alcohol. Gods below and above, I want to taste it. It is a foolish fancy, I know. But it is all I can focus on right now, in this dead place. All that makes any damned sense.
Ransom is the only thing alive here, other than me. Truly alive. And I need to remember how it feels to run my hands over something warm. Something beating.
“How’s a bloke supposed to get any breakfast around here?” He takes a step toward me, only inches of red between us.
I keep my voice light. “I don’t know. Bram’s out back, though, chopping firewood. If anyone does know, it would be him.”
Ransom gazes at me through hooded lashes, eyes like stones in a river. “Do you think the dead eat?”
It is a horrid thought, and the answer is, I don’t know. I am sure I don’t want to.
All I can smell is food. The imaginations of lemon scones, fresh butter, roasted venison… My stomach rumbles, and I place a hand on the fabric of my dress. Ithrandril be damned, I am hungry. I should have thought this through before we left. This and more.
“I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” I offer.
“I’m sure we will.” He closes the distance between us yet again, lifts a brow. “Look, Adelaide, I was hoping we could talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Right, well. I suppose I mean alone. Alone, alone.” His fingers reach toward my waist, barely brushing me, but it is enough to send his pupils wide with desire.
Heat claws up my throat, my ears, and my eyes drop to his parted lips, soft as rosebuds in June. The confessional is hot at my back. A secret space, quiet, alone. And then loathing pulses through me, if only for a moment.
Whatever you do, daughter-mine, do not let him touch you. The Lord Blacks are tricky gods.
Father’s words cloud my mind. Etch themselves into my skin until I am sure I will bleed black in this forest.
Ransom closes any semblance of a gap left between us and splays his hand against my navel, his touch so warm it burns.
I shouldn’t want this, can’t want this. But Ithrandril above, I do.
More than anything. Perhaps simply to spurn Father, maybe only to touch something alive, but I do not push away the feeling, the rapt desire to have his skin against my own.
Yes, I think. Yes, I do have something to confess. I have entered the realm of the dead, have used a Reaper’s bell to steal souls back from the grave. Surely, damnation awaits me, so what is the sweet sting of a little lust on my tongue?
I rock forward, arching into Ransom’s touch, and part my lips mere inches from his own. “Come with me.”
Ransom’s hand is hot in mine when I push him through the creaking door of the confessional and follow inside.
The air is tight, and the weight of all the wool on my body makes me itch.
A catch of sweat breaks out along my neck, and I think I might explode if I don’t get a drop of normalcy soon.
Just a little hint of what reality could be.
“How’s this?” My mouth is a hair’s breadth from Ransom’s.
“Perfect.”
I steady myself against one wall, and my heart beats an unruly pattern against my ribs. Ransom’s hands smooth down my waist, over the curve of my bottom. He makes a sound low in his throat that lights a fire inside me.
“Ransom.” My voice is a rasp, dry stalks of wheat against skin.
He presses a knee between my thighs, drawing a gasp from my throat.
“Yes?” His jaw is rough against my cheek. He dips his tongue to suck the sensitive skin behind my ear.
My stomach sharpens with a hot tug of desire. My hands go to his chest, his throat, up, up, up, into the soft golden curls at the nape of his neck.
Everything has been hell these past few days. Burying Lilith, then Hester, finding the bell, Bram, my father threatening to send me away…and I want it to all wash away. To be forgotten.
Back home, in Rixton, I picture our wedding day. Spring sunshine, blossoms bursting pink and white in the orchards. Home, where Ransom and I could live far away from the prying eyes of the village. Home…
And then I stumble upon the truth of it all.
We might not return home.
This might be the end of everything, here in this wood between.
With Ransom’s lips so close I could reach out and bite them, take them, I don’t have to think about the could-bes. His shoulders flex beneath my hands, and he lets out another groan. I suck in a breath, and then, for a second, I picture Bram.
He has been here in the wood for thousands of days, each one a scratched tally on his wall. Can I suppress whatever it is I feel for him for a few moments of bliss pressed against the side of the confessional?
Yes, I can.
“Kiss me.”
Ransom catches my lips with his own, sliding his mouth against mine and darting his tongue between my teeth. I mold myself against him, but there is too much fabric between us. Too much space. I want to feel him. Touch him.
I reach for his rumpled shirt when he deepens the kiss, drawing out another gasp. His teeth nick the delicate skin of my lip. I trail a finger up the sculpted planes of his stomach. Every inch of him burns.
Ransom breaks the kiss, catches my fingers in his own, and presses them behind my back.
“So greedy, Thorn.” His eyes are dark with lust and desire, and they stay trained on me while his fingers come to stroke my throat. They stay fixed on me when he pulls at my collar, exposing the pale skin, the salient bone. He leans closer, nips at the skin.
I suck in a breath, hips rocking forward.
“What if Bram comes back?” My voice is breathless.
Ransom growls into my throat. “What if he does? Are you going to stop me?”
I shiver. “No.”
“Good.”
When his mouth slides back over mine, desire replaces fear.
Takes the place of guilt, anger, and my own deafening silence like an infection.
Ransom tastes like every dark thought I have ever had.
Deep and unholy. My fingers pull at his hair, his own trailing my collarbone, down along the small mounds of my breasts.
I feel clumsy and yet wholly new. A freshly birthed calf blinking in the morning sunshine.
Everything is bright and beautiful and mine for the taking.
Not because I am kissing Ransom, but because there is danger dancing between us.
The true, sweet danger of having something finally worth losing.
And so, I do exactly that. I take it.