Page 72 of A Malicious Menagerie
“That’s okay,” I manage to reply at last. There’s a long, tense moment of silence before I force myself to ask, “Is Anna alright?”
“She’s fine,” Nathan is quick to assure me, and the knot of anxiety I’ve been carrying in my chest since I saw her being led away untangles itself.
There’s another scream not too far away, and I tense. “What’s out there?”
“The wendigo,” Nathan replies darkly.
“I don’t know what that is,” I admit, feeling foolish.
“I wish I didn’t either,” he says. Then, he does something even more unexpected. Hesmilesat me, and suddenly, he’s so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him. I avert my eyes, uncomfortable with this fragile camaraderie. After twenty of his heartbeats—I count each one without being consciously aware of it—he leans forward on his knees to offer his hand. “I’m Nathan.”
It takes me several long moments to decide whether to shake his hand. In the end, it’s his patience and the complete lack of judgment on his face that convinces me to rock forward and slip my hand into his. “I know. Anna told me about you. I’m Delia.”
His hand completely envelops mine, making me feel dainty by comparison even though I could lift him over my head with my preternatural strength. Trust me, I tested myself in those early days. His skin is smooth and blisteringly hot, his knuckles squared off, and his fingers long and graceful. If I still had the ability, I’m sure I would be blushing. After all, it’s been years since I’ve touched anyone outside of forced violence, and I didn’t make a habit of touching men even before I was captured.
The Virgin Vampire.That could absolutely be the title of one of Momma’s dime-store romance novels. But despite having a title and a leading man, I can’t quite write myself into the scene. Anna would be better suited to a romance, with her halo of dark gold hair and willowy ballerina frame and, y’know, her beating heart, but I’ve heard her speak fondly of her wolf enough times that I know she’s already the heroine of her own book.
As Nathan and I draw away from one another, I tilt my head to listen. The sounds of fighting have faded, and I wonder if thewendigohas given up or been captured by Mathis’s security. Having never seen a wendigo, not even as an illustration, I imagine something like the depictions of chupacabras I’ve seen in TV shows and on the covers of tabloids in the supermarket checkout aisle.Weekly World News: Hillary Clinton’s Chupacabra Baby!
Lost in my thoughts, it takes me a couple of minutes to realize that Nathan is scrutinizing me. “What?” I ask defensively, tucking my knees more tightly to my chest as if I can protect myself from his gawking.
“Nothing, just…” He shakes his head. “How long have you been here?”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re Mathis’s right-hand man. Or at least you were pretending to be. You don’t already know?”
He winces. “I’ve only been working for him for two years. You’ve been here longer than that.”
My jaw drops. “Twoyears?”
He’s staring again. “How long did you think it had been?”
The honest answer is that I don’t know. With only brief periods of lucidity between… feedings, it could have been one hundred years or a handful of weeks. It felt like forever and the blink of an eye all at once. I hesitate, really not wanting to ask. “What’s the date?”
When he tells me, I burst into tears. I can’t help it. As far as I can tell, I’m immortal now, but the thought of spending eight of my thirty-six years trapped in a cage and being used as an unwilling assassin nearly breaks me.
Through my misery, I can hear Nathan’s indrawn breath. I know I must be quite a sight—a sad imitation of a girl in a stained dress crying thick tears of blood. I’d be embarrassed about this handsome man seeing me this way if I weren’t too consumed with the fact that nearly a quarter of my life—or existence, at least—has belonged to someone else.
Suddenly, I’m aware of a tentative hand on my right shoulder. I reel back with a gasp, looking up at Nathan where he’s come to kneel beside me. I quickly brush at my cheeks, knowing it’s no use—the blood will just smear and look worse. But instead of recoiling, he only reaches up to the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and offers me his orange pocket square. “Here.”
I reach out with trembling fingers to accept the offering, biting back a gasp when my fingers brush his. I’m struck again by howwarmhe is, and I have to fight the urge to drop the handkerchief and thread my fingers through his instead. “Thank you,” I murmur, but I freeze with the fabric raised halfway to my face. “I’ll ruin it,” I warn him, trying to hand it back.
He raises a hand, palm out, and shakes his head. “I don’t care about the handkerchief, Delia.”
I shiver at both his use of my name—it’s different hearing a rich, masculine voice saying it instead of Anna’s sweet, gentle lilt—and the intimation thathe might not care about the pocket square, but hedoescare about my sadness. “Thank you,” I repeat, finally allowing myself to dab the grotesque tears from my cheeks.
Nathan is silent again, but I can feel his thoughtful gaze on me as I hide behind his gift. Once again, if my cheeks could heat, they would, this time from embarrassment. “I’m sorry for crying,” I mumble.
I can feel Nathan shaking his head beside me. “If I were in your shoes…” He glances down at my bare feet, my favorite ankle boots long since lost. “Well, if I were in your position, I would cry, too.”
“I doubt it,” I reply, my warbling voice approaching something close to teasing. I can’t see this stoic, controlled man crying.
After a long, pregnant pause, Nathan huffs a sigh. “Will you let me take you out of here, Delia?”
I finally lower my fabric shield to blink at him owlishly. “What do you mean?”
“Anna sent me to get you out of here,” Nathan murmurs. “Tonight. Right now.”
“Anna promised she would come to get me,” I note, wariness warring with intense longing.
