Page 104 of Awry
More specifically— with the intersection point.
I’m not lightheaded.
I’m not beguiled or enchanted.
The nearer he gets, the more anchored I feel.
Not frozen.Not overwhelmed.
I’m in this moment.Breathing it.Savoring it.As if … as if … my very soul has been starved?And he is … he is …
A slow smile spreads across his face.
His eyes are both green and blue at once.
Tattoos twine around his forearms, decorating the backs of his hands and up his fingers.More black ink teases the edge of his collar, as if trying to creep up his neck.
He doesn’t pause at the base of the front patio steps.
He climbs.One step.Two steps.And now we’re the same height.Then he takes that third step, and he’s slightly taller than me.Then one more, still a step lower but towering over me now.
Still holding my gaze, his hand lifts, reaching for me, for my face …
I’m not wearing my sunglasses.I’m the Conduit, standing on a claimed intersection point.I must be radiating power, my eyes glowing purple.Yet he doesn’t hesitate for a moment.
I tip my chin up.
Am I going to let him kiss me?A total stranger?
His hair is long enough that it curls at the ends.It’s tousled as if he’s been running his fingers through it, not crisp and perfect as if he’s styled it that way.
“Rought!”Presh cries from somewhere near his elbow.“You said you’d behave!”
Rought’s grin widens, but he keeps leaning over me despite his sister’s admonishment.His hand is poised to cup my face, though he doesn’t touch me.He leans close enough that he brushes his cheek along mine, inhaling deeply as he does so.
Scenting me.
Scent-marking me?
Presh shoves at his shoulder.He doesn’t move an inch, but he chuckles — deep and husky — as he shifts back enough to meet my gaze again.
I realize I was wrong about his eyes.Both are an even mixture of green and blue, yes.But both are now also thickly rimmed in burnished gold.
“Zaya Gage,” he says, pure joy laced through his words.As if it delights him to say my name.
I don’t scare him in the least.My violet eyes don’t bother him at all.
“Rought Guerra,” I say, my tone smooth … too smooth?Am I … flirting?“Your reputation precedes you.”
He laughs.
My chest warms, as if he’s the fucking sun and I’m a beleaguered flower.
I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to anyone, no matter how much of a presence or charisma they exude.
He glances down, between us.
I’ve raised my hand to him, to his chest.As if to caress, not to push him away.He cups the back of that hand and presses it ever so lightly against him.
