Page 69 of Touch

“Was it nice to touch a woman? To be touched back?”

“Stop it,” he hisses. “You can’t do this. You can’t bring light into my life, then routinely disappear on a whim without it gutting me. You can’t reign supreme inside my fucking head, consume every waking moment, then lie to me, push me away, and hold it against me for spending time with a friend, andthencome here and act like I’m a trinket that’s been stolen from you. I’ve been obsessed since day one, but you’re only interested in me because I can see you. Because I’m another one of your human toys.”

“No. It’s because I feel sorry for you!” she snarls back.

Hurt tears through Andrew’s features. “You’re lying,” he insists, but his voice hitches at the end, doubt creeping in.

“You’re not supposed to see me. I didn’t trust you at first and had to investigate. And yes, we had our pleasant moments. And when you learned what my people do to mortals, I felt obligated to mollify your fury before it ran rampant. As for tonight’s revel, I endeavored to make sure you didn’t exposewhat I’ve revealed to you. A being such as myself cannot be too careful, though I’m grateful I was wrong to concern myself. You’re quite the burden.”

That last part is true. He is a burden, and she loves him for it.

“Otherwise, I have no need for your company. At most, it was a minor diversion,” she finishes, detesting herself for this speech and what it does to Andrew’s face.

Yet as she’d anticipated, he recovers quickly. His expression conceals the sorrow she’d just witnessed, his eyes sharpening like ice. “Huh.”

What the devil doeshuhmean?

It means, “Then maybe I’ll call Holly tomorrow—,” she gasps as Andrew stalks her way until their bodies melt together, his chest shoving through hers, “—and pick up where we left off.”

This is the second time a male has lunged for her tonight, and the first time one of them has succeeded in penetrating her. In seconds, Andrew’s proximity eviscerates the memory of how it had felt with Anger.

Andrew’s breath skates across her tremulous mouth, the sensation reducing her vigilance to ash. In its place, the stamina she’d lost replenishes itself, only with greater force, infused with a different sort of power. Their lips slide into one another like steam; somehow, the invisible contact crackles like a fuse. Andrew’s eyes shudder, the mercury of his irises consuming her, and his pectorals scrape through her breasts.

Stars. Any more of this, and she will voluntarily suffocate.

Mustering the last vestiges of her energy, Love snatches the notebook from Andrew’s bag, takes advantage of his shock, and opens it to find another passage.

Glass eyes and lying mouth. Hands that slip inside my chest and find my heart.

Clipped onto the inside cover is the note he’d written to her.

Who is this Selfish Little Myth?

She yanks the page from its clasp. Andrew lunges, rescuing the notebook and bending it in the process. Yet he’s not quick enough. Love only needs that one passage, the lines that refuse to go away. Before she can stop herself, she rips the leaflet apart, shredding it in half, the scraps falling around them like ribbons and landing in the snow.

With a harsh noise, Andrew crashes to the ground and rescues the soggy pieces. Kneeling at her feet and holding the mess in his hands, he slices his gaze up at hers, grimacing through shattered, hateful features.

The sight annihilates Love. She wants to fall beside him, to bow her head and beg his pardon.

Why is she doing this? Why must he matter?

Slowly, Andrew rises and towers above her. “You don’t need the power of touch. Not to destroy me,” he whispers. “You break my heart without lifting a finger.”

Love holds out her hands, imploring. “Andrew, I—”

“I wish I’d never met you.” He backs up. “Get the fuck away from me.”

It appears he doesn’t need to touch her either. Not to make Love suffer. She doesn’t know what to do with this terrible, destructive feeling, and she’s tired, desperate to fix this night, and grief-stricken because the more she tries, the worse it will get.

In his eyes, everything about her is a torment. And she agrees with him.

“Fine,” she blusters.

“Fine,” he grits back.

Yet. Neither of them moves. His eyes drag to her mouth, and her gaze commits the same crime.

Impatient, Andrew speaks to her lips, “On the count of three.”

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