Chapter 30 #2
“Smartass,” Task mutters. He tightens his grip on her waist and steps them both backward, counting under his breath.
One, two, three. He leads her in a slow box step around the room, Kit hyperaware of every place her body touches his.
There’s no music, just the sound of their breathing, Task’s counting.
The unfettered laughter five minutes ago has given way to quiet concentration.
Her heart is pounding in her chest, and she’s certain he must be able to feel it.
Task
This was a terrible fucking idea. What on Lumaria had he been thinking? He hadn’t, really. He’d felt pleasantly warm, filled with whiskey and laughter, and her smell had made him momentarily lose his mind.
He’s touching her. His fingertips are at her waist, his hand is laced with hers, and he’s guiding them around the room as if he’s some kind of aristocrat, which he absolutely is not. A kidnapper, maybe. An assassin, definitely.
He feels the pain where his hand touches her, but he’s also simultaneously outside of it.
It’s as though he knows it’s there, but his synapses aren’t registering it — it doesn’t engulf him in the way it often does when he touches someone.
And he sure as shit isn’t letting go of her now that he has her in his arms. He wouldn’t let go of her if the ship was on fire, if his entire world was burning down.
As soon as he thinks it, it startles him so much that he stumbles over his own feet, dropping her hand in the process.
She reaches for him, and he takes a step back, his chest heaving.
He’s immediately sober, as if he hadn’t just had six glasses of whiskey.
He can’t keep touching her — even though he wove earlier, it wasn’t enough, and he doesn’t know if he can physically bear it.
If he takes too much in, he might refract it back on her.
She’s looking up at him, her green eyes fixed on his face. He stares at her full lips, her pointed chin, her own chest moving up and down as she lets out little breaths. He knows he’s going to touch her again, even before the lie is out of his mouth.
“Kit,” he says, apologetically. “I’m sorry, I just — touching is…challenging. I shouldn’t have done that.”
She’s staring at him, her brow furrowed, as if she is trying to puzzle something out. “Why?”
He doesn’t respond, just shakes his head. He wants to trust her, wants to tell her why. She’s even seen him use it, but for all her brains, hasn’t put it together.
“Task,” she says softly. She takes a step closer to him again, and he knows he’s not going to back away.
He should, but he won’t. He’s forgotten how comforting it is to be this close to someone.
She lifts her palm to his cheek, running her thumb along the side of his mouth, gazing at him in a way that makes him feel flayed open.
As if she can see inside of him, see all his darkness.
He’s bracing himself to consume her pain again, but in that instant, something strange happens.
She’s touching him, but he only feels warmth where her skin meets his own.
No razor-sharp slice of agony, no painful memories pouring into him.
Just her hand on his face. He closes his eyes, relishing it, letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
He feels weightless, like he’s floating untethered outside the ship.
He opens his eyes when he no longer feels her hand on his face, missing her touch as soon as she’s withdrawn it.
Kit pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s still standing close to him, though she’s wrapped her arms around herself. “You can tell me, you know.”
Task swallows. He does know. He feels like he could tell her anything, everything, and she would take it in.
Analyze it. Calculate the best solution.
Help him work through it. But he can’t tell her this.
This would break everything, and he won’t do it.
He wants one thing for himself, just for a little bit.
And then Kit surprises him by saying, “I know.”
He raises an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance, though his heart is suddenly racing. What does she mean, she knows? What does she know? He’s quiet, waiting for her. He will not give anything away.
“About your power,” she clarifies. She turns away from him, heading back toward the couch, where she plops back down and picks up her whiskey glass again.
He feels rooted to the spot where he stands, frozen with this revelation. He’s not sure what to do, what to say. His power is supposed to be classified, not widely known. But at least she didn’t say she knew that he was sent to kidnap her.
He finally unsticks his feet and sits back on the couch next to her, his thigh pressed against hers, filling his own whiskey glass again. He takes a long drink. “How?”
She looks excited, launching into an explanation of everything she’s witnessed Task doing, the way he flinches at touch, his reticence to get close to people, the paragraph in one obscure text about the evolution of Pain Echoes. He didn’t realize she’d seen so much.
“So what I’m gathering is that you can’t keep your eyes off of me?” Task says it with a little smile.
She scoffs. “I’m a Luminary. I’m trained to be observant. I’m not paying you any more attention than anyone else I’m charged with caring for on this ship.”
“Sure,” he says, still smiling to himself. He feels flushed, full of anxious energy.
“You only just confirmed it for me, though,” Kit continues, “when you danced with me. I could tell you were in pain. And just now, when I touched you, I…I’m somehow able to counteract it.
I don’t know exactly how, but it’s almost like I can neutralize it.
I trained in rare powers in school, but never in applied sciences.
It was all theoretical. So I don’t know, I just know that I felt something shift in you.
” She’s rambling now, trying to explain something to him and to herself that she doesn’t quite grasp.
“Kit —” Task cuts her off, putting his hand on her knee. She stills, though he feels her nervousness radiating off her. He still feels no pain from her. “You’re right.”
She grins, triumphantly. “I knew it.”
“So this means you can touch me whenever you want?” he asks. He’s considering what this might mean for him. For them. For the things he’s imagined doing with her.
He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if his touch is also doing things to her. She’s flushed, her cheeks pink — he’s not sure if it’s the liquor or their closeness, or a combination of the two. It’s been years since he’s been this close to somebody.
“Whoever said I wanted to touch you?” she retorts, but Task knows it’s half-assed.
“Don’t lie to yourself, love,” he says, trying to revert to casual, even though his heart is still racketing around inside his ribcage.
She rolls her eyes and picks up her drink again. “You’re the worst.”
He chuckles. “I aim to please.”