Page 46 of The Lost Fae
I straighten my back, unaware that I'd hunched over while focusing on the work of it. My tongue darts over my lip and I taste the blood from breaking the skin as I bit it. There is even damp sweat in the most embarrassing places... under my arms, the lower part of my back.... my ass crack. Hopefully Lincoln can't tell through all the layers. Fingers crossed that when I stand there isn't a dark line on the chair, as if I've chosen to wet myself today.
Still, I have to put effort in to take each finger away from Lincoln's hand. Flecks of blood cling to my skin from holding him against me so tightly. I grimace, certain that it'll fall right off and I've used all this energy for nothing but making my clothes wet.
Lincoln lifts his hand.
And his finger stays attached.He even gives it a little wiggle to test it out.
"Aha!" I scream, throwing both my fists up in the air in victory. That pinky is now back in its place, home on the hand of my claimed. I did it! I can't believe that I did it... but I did. Wow, oh, wow. I've truly impressed myself this time.
Ziko's mouth lifts up at both corners, though he tries to force it back down into a straight line. He laughs a little as he looks at it. That's when I notice the beads of sweat on his head too, dampening his dark hair.
"It's crooked..." he says, and I can tell he wants to burst out laughing. This is not a laughing matter, though.
Where the tip of his finger meets the second knuckle, it tilts at the slightest angle. Nothing so sharp that anyone would consider it broken, but it iscrooked. Disappointment clutches my chest. I drop my face into my hands, cradling my cheekbones in my palms. I exhale a sharp breath.
"You did wonderful," Lincoln tries to say again, but I can still hear the hint of sarcasm in this voice. He's trying to humor me. I wish he wouldn't.
Though I can't see him through the press of my fingers, I'm well aware of every movement he makes. Ziko lowers himself to his knees, running his hands up my legs. He presses his fingers into my thighs. His pinky, angled and deformed by my own doing, is visible through the smallest crack between my grasp. I squeeze my eyes shut. Shame burns up my neck, painting the tip of my ears the brightest shade of crimson.
Though I try to stay strong, try to shoulder every burden of this life I never knew existed, there are moments where it becomes overwhelming. Every failure proves me unworthy of my own crown. If the Shadow Fae knew about how littleItruly knew, about how unnatural magic feels to me, would they still want me?
"Hey," Ziko says, a little softer, taking ahold of my wrists and pulling my hands from my face. "You did it!" he says it like a quiet cheer.
"Lincoln," I deadpan. "You look like you broke your finger and it didn't get healed correctly. I did not heal it correctly."
"It bends. It's attached." He lifts up his hand, wiggling his pinky and making a fist again and again to prove it. "You're always so hard on yourself. You don't have to strive for perfection every time."
Is that it? Is it the perfectionist in me that makes me feel this way? I mean... in all technicality I'd reattached a whole nubbin of a finger back to his hand. I should be fine, but it's all too much. So I stuff it back down to keep it from overwhelming me. I straighten and reach out for Lincoln's hand, examining where there is a thin white seam of a line where the skin was mended back together.
"I'm sorry," I mutter. As I slip my hand under his, frowning at the clammy heat of his palm. "Why are you so sweaty? Did I hurt you? A lot?”
"No. Gods no! You're just new. Remember how I told you that you can easily wreck someone's mind if you can't control yourself inside of their head? I'm stronger, and I would know if I needed to toss you out of my head, but damn, the turmoil of your mood swings is a wild ride."
I can feel blood drain from my face. How close was I to shattering Lincoln’s mind? Not close enough if he didn't force me out of his head, I guess.
"If you'd gotten close to making me lose my mind, I would have shoved you out. Even if my finger was hanging from my hand by a thread." He tacks on as if that will help.
A groan rumbles up through my chest. I let go of his hand and lean back in my seat, lifting my gaze to the ceiling. Perspiration trails from my neck down my back, creating a cold chill that climbs over my shoulders. All that's left for me to do is move forward... shove this embarrassing memory deep, deep, deep down.
"One day this will be a funny story." Lincoln's dimples reappear on each cheek.
"I doubt that."
"I don't. I already think it's funny."
And when he laughs, I contemplate slapping the shit out of him. But honestly, I don't have the energy to even lift my hand. The best I can give him is a half sigh, half moan before I rub my temples.
"So what's the plan? Where are we going? Or do you plan on chopping off limbs for me to reattach upside down or backwards?"
"Nah." He tucks his hands into his pockets standing so casually you'd think we were just friends talking in a coffee shop instead of sailing to only God knows where on a stolen pirate ship. "You've practiced enough for today."
"And?"
"And we're already where we need to be."
Part of me wants to furrow my brows and glare at him with his grand ability to be so radically vague, but the other part is too confused to even bother hiding the way my mouth pops open. His teeth rake over his bottom lip as he takes my hand, pulling me up to standing. I'm thankful he faces the door as he guides me away. I sneak a glance at my seat to see if it's as I feared. Yup. Booty-crack sweat has left behind a darker stain on the seat, forming the shape of both asscheeks. That better dry before we have a reason to come back in here.
Does someone as magnificent as Lincoln even gather sweat in places like that? Shouldn't my Fae body suddenly make this perfect pristine picture of grace and beauty? I thought some things would no longer be a problem once I got my magic back. I guess sweating through my underwear isn’t one of them. Shame.
