Page 73 of Caging Darling

I take a swig of the faerie wine, reveling in the bitterness that paints the back of my throat. “Technically, I can’t see you.”

“Only because you choose not to. Only because seeing me would make it more difficult to pretend.”

I roll my head to the side, toward where his voice originates. “There’s little here that brings me pleasure. Forgive me if I have to pretend it up.”

“Pretend something long enough, and you might find yourself loving something that isn’t real.”

I splash a bit of my wine into the darkness, but I smile all the same. Not my mother’s smile—the beautiful, perfected smile. No, there’s more of a curl to my smile, I imagine. Like the cornerof a parchment that’s been held over the tip of a burning candle a second too long. “I don’t love you.”

“Of course you don’t. I’m not him.”

“I don’t love him, either.”

“Mm.”

I close my eyes, aware that this is about the time they’ll have adjusted. I don’t want to see, so I take another drink. A warm buzz settles at my jaw, reverberating against the bone.

“How was your trip?” he asks.

“Fine.”

There’s laughter in his voice. “Did you bring back a souvenir?”

I smile, settling my head into the sand and pointing haphazardly to where I think I left my satchel in the sand. “Always do.”

“It’s disturbing, really. Taking mementos of your victims. Never would have pegged you for a serial murderer, Darling. But I suppose it is the timid ones you have to watch out for.”

“I’m not the one who kills them,” I say. “Usually. Besides, it doesn’t count as being a serial murderer if you’re working for someone else.”

“Like this doesn’t count as an affair.”

“Exactly.”

His voice is closer now, though there was no rustling of the sand to indicate it. “Because you and I are friends?”

My lips twitch. I try my best to remain still. Let him get close. It hurts not to reach out to feel him when my hands want nothing more. “Something like that.”

“Darling.” The wind sneaks into the cave, brushing up against my cheek. One more swig of wine, and it might feel warm enough to be his breath on my skin.

“Don’t call me that,” I whisper.

“But you like it when I do.”

My heart hammers against my chest. He’s so close now, near enough that his voice might as well be originating in my skull. The wind whirls through the cave again, frigid and chilling my bones.

He pauses, though he lingers. “You’re freezing. You didn’t bring a coat.”

“I don’t need one.”

“Darling.”

“I said not to call me that.”

“Yet you want me to draw closer. To whisper in your ear.”

“It’s the least you could do, really.”

“You’re shivering.”

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