Page 75 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

“What?”

“When I touch you,” I slide my hand down from hers, my thumb settling over her pulse, “your heart rattles. Does fun do that for you as well?”

Desdemona looks and sounds unbothered when she says, “Not the way infuriating does.”

But her pulse betrays her.

“Infuriating means you’re burning for me, does it not?”

Her hand that I hold becomes very hot. As if even her body cannot deny what her mind longs to.

“If you wonder if it’s reciprocated,” I say under my breath. “It’s been my nights greatest challenge to keep my eyes on anything but you.”

This time, I see it. My reward—the small amount of blush that softens her cheeks.

“Oh please I’d burn you before I burned for you?—”

She trips. I catch her before she reaches the ground, but not without a smile. Other than when droozed, she’s more sure-footed than the kids with a lifetime's worth of training. This is almost a form of flattery.

“Are you sure about that? Because I couldn’t tell you the last time a girl tripped over herself because she couldn’t get enough of me.”

“Funny, because I could tell you the last time a boy did the same for me.” She gives me a pointed look.

I shrug and say, much more casually than I feel, “But falling for you is such an easy thing to do.”

How I wish it wasn’t.

Her eyebrows scrunch down. “What are you playing at here?”

“I can tell you what I’m playing for.” I pull her a little closer. Not at all as close as I would like. Only enough for her to know I want her with me. “You.”

She shakes her head and lets out a short, shallow laugh. But her body tenses beneath my hands when I glance at Lusia. I tense as well when I see Lusia watching us. I fear our interlude will be over before it’s ended. Do I look overly involved? Or do I appear as I did with Fleur?

I know it’s not the latter. I pray that it is.

“Who’s the woman?” When I don’t answer, Desdemona says, “I know you know. I’ve been watching you look at her all night.”

Resignation settles in me and I answer, “The queen.” Desdemona takes a deep breath and I realize that I am holding her hand tighter than I was before.

“Why is your mother looking at me like that?” Desdemona whispers.

“I don’t know.” I’m not prepared to tell her that the queen has been asking about her since before I knew her.

“Am I safe here?” Her long, dark eyelashes flutter down over her sharp eyes. Her real eyes that sit beneath the glamour I have to pull apart every time I glimpse her. “Because I’ll run. I’d be happy to leave, and if she’s going to do something?—”

“Where would you run to?” I ask. Running could be her best option. I could find her, wherever she goes, pick up this rendezvous again, work with her and her power, make it to the void when the time comes.

Prove to her that she’s safe with me. Define these fickle feelings. Count the freckles on her face. Memorize the shape of her lips with mine.

Gods.

If I keep this going it will not be me undoing her, it will be her undoing me. And that simply can't be, not with what I have on the line.

But I couldn’t imagine a person that I’d want to pull my strings more.

“Truthfully, I don’t know.” She pauses, her grip around my neck loosening. “I mean, when I find my mom, she and I will go back home, but I don’t belong there without her.”

“You don’t belong in your home?” I ask.

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