Page 44 of The Silent
She tried to hide her smile but couldn’t. “Sogenerous.”
“Another of my many finequalities.”
Kyra enjoyed the feeling of Leo’s rumbling laughter in his chest. She also liked feeling tucked under his arm, but she didn’t know what to do with her arms. Leo solved the problem by grabbing her hand and draping her arm across his hard abdomen. She could feel the layer of muscle under his shirt and wondered if Leo would allow her to touch it. She wanted to press her fingers into that muscle to see if it was as hard as it felt. She wanted her mouth on it too. Wanted her lips to feel the line of hair that ran below his belly button. She’d seen him with his shirt off, but now she had the driving urge to feel, to taste, to toucheverything.
Then Kyra saw the rather large bulge in Leo’s pants just below his waistband and decided to ask to touch his abdominal muscles at a later time. Secretly, she was excited to see his arousal. For the first time in her life, a man’s desire didn’t feel threatening or impersonal. Leo had said he likedher. Not just her appearance. His soul voice gave her no indication he was lying. If Leo was an honest person, Kyra needed tobelievehim.
Leo had picked up a book that was sitting in the corner. It was a bird-watching book, though she hadn’t seen many birds in Thailandsofar.
“Do you like books?” sheasked.
“I do. I like audiobooks especially. When I’m training or driving, I often listen to them.” He craned his neck and saw the stack of books by her bed. “I see you are areader.”
“Yes.” He hadn’t asked, but she decided to offer some information anyway. “For most of my life—before I learned to block my mind—books were my best friends. I could listen to them and only hear what they wanted to tell me, not another voicebehindit.”
Leo’s arm around her tightened, and she wondered if there was something he didn’t like about the story. Perhaps she shouldn’t have offered so much information when he hadn’tasked.
“Yes, I like books,” she saidquietly.
“I’m glad you had them,” Leo said. “Tell mesomethingelse.”
“Likewhat?”
“Likeeverything.”
PrijaII
“He went right into her cottage!”Intira was almost jumping up and down. “He is so bold. Are all foreignerssobold?”
Prija raised an eyebrow and examined the loom where Bun Ma was teaching Intira toweave.
“I like him. He’sfunny.”
He wasn’t funny. Or that wasn’t why she liked him. Intira was bright and curious. She hungered for new sights, new experiences, new people. She’d been bubbling over with news of the night market for days. She’d been talking about the people and the music. She couldn’t believe how many different-colored dresses there were and how many foreigners. She’d be talking about the Irin scribe for a year if he stayedaday.
Intira stared out the window. “What do you think they’re doing? Should we go over and say hello? He looked mad. Butnotmad.”
Prija knocked on the floor to grab Intira’s attention. The little girl didn’t need to be thinking about what was going on between the two foreigners. It was none of their business, even though Prija had seen Niran’s eyes. He’dlikethe moonfaced girl to be hisbusiness.
But Prija was wary of foreigners. One of the scribes who’d tried to take her had been foreign. His accent told her he was Chinese, but from far, far away. She had no idea why they’d tried to take her. She couldn’t be useful to them. Why would they take her if she wasn’tuseful?
Having a scribe in the compound put Prija’s nerves on edge. She didn’t like their hard black tattoos, which were so much uglier than the delicateSak Yantof her brothers. Sura’s tattoos had animals and beautiful patterns. Scribe tattoos were like ugly black scribbles. Like a child would make. She didn’t trust them. Didn’t like them. She had no idea how the moonfaced girl could let one touch her with his ink-stained hands. For Prija’s whole life, scribes had been the ones trying tokillher.
Niran and Sura told her that the Irin weren’t their enemies now. That the scribes knew all Grigori weren’t the same as the bad ones. Prija didn’t have as much faith as her brothers, but she knew where to run and where to hide Intira if things became ugly. Prija could defend herself. Of that she had nodoubt.
“Bun Ma says it’s ugly.” Intira sat in front ofherloom.
Prija gave her areproachfullook.
“No, not ugly. She is too kind to say that. But she doesn’tlikeit.”
Bun Ma was a traditional girl. She didn’t like any weaving patterns that weren’t like those she’d been taught. She was an excellent weaver and a good sister, but she lacked imagination. Prija looked at the scattered pattern. They were stars. Or knives, perhaps. The pointed stars sat at angles to each other, riding the lines of red and gold Intira had woven with the cotton thread. It was an odd geometry. A pattern, no question, but not one that Prijacouldread.
“Do you see it?” Intira asked, her face glowing with excitement. “Bun Ma doesn’tseeit.”
Prija doubted that anyone other than Intira saw meaning in the pattern. There was something… She frowned. It did remind her of something. There was a low humming in her mind, a vibration that tickled the base of her skull, but it teased her only a moment before it shot like needles to hertemples.
She closed her eyes and put her hands overherface.
