Page 95 of Touch

As they walk through the woods, the mortal keeps a tight grip on her hand. Halting at the fringes, they stare at the village, where lights glow from within the bookstore. A truck loaded with firewood rattles by, and the scent of chimney smoke permeates the air.

This world. His world.

Andrew’s wish to be desired for who he is crushes Love’s soul. More than anything, she longs to give him a choice about his fate, her own future be damned. Yet Holly’s an honorable person and will make him happy. This gives Love comfort.

When this is over, she will find a new way to match people. A fair way, if possible. If Love relearns her power, perhaps her kind will learn as well. Somehow, she’ll establish a balance with mortals.

Love’s hands tremble for Andrew. She longs to soothe him with her touch, but she’s afraid of doing it wrong. The most she dares is tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, which seems to work.

While facing ahead, Andrew clenches his eyes shut. “When will it happen?”

This, she must also lie about. “Not for a while.”

His eyes open, those irises sharpening as they swing toward her. “You’re about to tell me not to come back. That I can’t see you anymore.”

“Andrew—”

“If I’m right, don’t fucking say it.”

“May I say something else?”

“Anything you want.”

“Be a tad greedy sometimes. It’s good for the complexion,” she chokes out.

“You’re good for my complexion,” he hisses before dropping the weapons, yanking her to him, and seizing her mouth.

The force of Andrew’s kiss pries her open, the husk of his breath liquifying her knees. Her lips yield under the grip of his own. Their tongues pitch deeply, rocking together in desperation, the tempo hectic. Groaning, he laps into her as though determined to brand himself on Love. To claim her and leave part of himself behind. A taste to remember him by, tosoothe her each night, to remind her that once upon a time, a mortal had worshipped her.

Andrew seals her mouth with his, lips grasping, tongue thrusting against hers. And somehow, the ferocity kindles another feeling, so bittersweet it’s almost transcendent. Fates, she moans and rams her mouth into him, her fingernails scratching through his hair, yearning to keep that sublime feeling close until her dying breath.

Tears sneak out, but Love sucks them up. If she lets them escape, they will turn her into water. She’ll freeze like snow, then melt and disappear.

Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.

Bereft, she rips her mouth away. “Go.”

Andrew growls and snatches her lips once again, quick and harsh. Then he tears himself from Love, grabs his archery off the ground, and stalks from the woods without looking back.

That’s when Love cries. Covering her face, she permits herself a minute of it, sobs uprooting from her womb and falling into her palms. How do humans endure this? For they are much stronger than she’s given them credit for.

At last, Love snarls. She wipes her cheeks and collects her archery. For a handful of minutes, she waits like a hunter as snow begins to fall. On time, Holly drives down the main road and parks in front of the bookstore.

In the glass cottage, Andrew had temporarily stepped away from his phone, moving to get dressed shortly after texting with Georgie. In the brief seconds when his naked back had been turned, Love had taken advantage before the apparatus could lock her out. After struggling to figure out how to work the infernal thing, she had located Holly’s number—as Love hoped, they must have swapped digits at some point—and sent her a message. Pretending to be Andrew, she’d typed a request tomeet at the bookstore, indicating that Andrew and Holly needed to talk.

Presently, the woman exits the car and glances wearily at the shop. Love senses the female’s conflicted emotions. Fear clashes with repentance.

She likes Andrew. But she loves Griffin.

Following Holly inside the store yet keeping a safe distance, Love feels better. Oddly, the air’s indoor texture counteracts how her skin had felt in the woods, somehow calming her flesh. She moves deftly, peeking around the corner to find Georgie recommending a book to a customer.

Andrew has stripped out of his coat and stored his archery. He’s switching out a wall sconce when Holly approaches, surprise etching across his face. The pair speaks in hushed tones, Holly’s features growing confused, whereas skepticism clouds Andrew’s voice.

The point of his tongue digs into his canines. “I never sent you a text,” he draws out, knowing Love too well.

Just then, Ulrik barges into the shop. He strides past Love like a bulldozer, takes one look at Andrew, and sags with relief. The man’s face isn’t as creased as it used to be, and he’s more perplexed than irate as he interrupts the lovers’ conversation.

Love strains to listen. It’s difficult over the shop music and the whoosh in her ears.

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