Page 28 of A City of Smoke and Demons
‘I knew it,’ she whispered, sitting back, her face tight. ‘Did they get sick of you and kick you out? Is that how you ended up being tucked beneath a gangster's wing?’
Ezra’s response was sharp. ‘Something like that. You have an inaccurate picture of what it means to be employed by Maddog Pierce, Analise. If he wants me to do something, I don’t have much choice in the matter. But it keeps me fed, so I do what I’m told.’
‘We all do things we don’t like to survive,’ Analise argued. ‘It’s the way of things, isn’t it? If you can’t harden yourself, the Credges will chew you up and spit you out with absolutely no remorse. It’s kill, or be killed,’ she added, her voice dropping.
Ezra thought back to the night he found her in the morgue, and the man at the mouth of the alley. He’d forgotten about him, until now, but recalled the magic coating his dead skin. ‘Have you killed a man?’
‘Have you?’ she demanded. Her magic was still deep red, angry.
‘Almost, but that was in the ring, not in defence of my life. I’d never judge someone for taking a life when theirs was on the line because, like you said, it’s kill, or be killed.’
They finished their meal in silence. Ezra came around to her side of the table and held out his hand for her plate, but she shook her head and stood. Her cutlery slipped and fell to theground at his feet. Analise sighed and dropped into a crouch, picking the knife and fork up.
Ezra couldn’t help himself after watching her put food between those full lips of hers, after coming so close to revealing things he must keep hidden. He was tense, especially after last night. He needed to be the cocky, arrogant prick she thought he was, because that was easier. ‘While you’re already on your knees … I don’t think you returned the favour.’
‘I don’t think you did me any.’ Analise looked up, those eyes like liquid darkness. His knees threatened to buckle as she ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, one hand sliding up the back of his leg, the other coming to rest on his hip. He was vaguely aware of a knife an inch from his balls and a fork hovering over his cock. She smiled a slow, knowing smile. Her fingers tightened on his thigh—her nails through his clothes sent a bolt of heat through him as he imagined them shredding the skin on his back.
Pale pink light curled around her shoulders; fingers of it brushed her cheek. It was the same colour as her lips. The longer he stared at her, that pink darkened until it was almost red then vanished as her hand tightened on his hip.
He needed to touch her. He could still feel the heat of her skin, the softness of her thigh against his knee and the way her fingers curled against his bare chest. He bit back a groan. How the fuck was he going to sleep tonight?
Analise didn’t take her eyes off him.
Before he could think about what he was doing, Ezra reached down and trailed his fingers over the curve of her cheek. She didn’t break eye contact as he gently traced her bottom lip. His toes curled and every nerve began to fray as her lips parted, the warmth of her breath curling around his finger.
She leant forward and caught his finger gently between her teeth, then slowly stood. Ezra didn’t dare move. The tip ofher tongue brushed his finger.Fuck.He exhaled sharply as his insides turned molten. The plate slipped from his hand, shattering on the floorboards, but neither of them moved.
He inched closer to her, unable to help it. Her lips curled, then she bit down on his finger—hard. She chuckled, before stepping back and he couldn’t look away from her as she edged towards the door.
‘Thanks for the food,’ Analise said, and disappeared into the hall.
Ezra watched the white indent in his thumb bloom purple while he tried to remember how to breathe.
Analise knew enough about the human body to understand what was happening to her. Her brain was charged and racing. Her nerve endings were burning. She was dreaming the terrible, tormented things she hadn’t seen in years: a graveyard under the moonlight. A thin wailing cry in the air. Hands pushing through the soil, fingernails caked with grave dirt. A blood-red moon, the ground beneath her feet as hot as coals and a face, skin shining and bloodless lips curled into a smile.
She needed a drink; tea would do. Hurrying into the kitchen, she crashed into Ezra, jumping back quickly. She met his eyes, and looked away, biting her lip.
Ezra, who used to be in the fuckingGendarme.
‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked, gesturing to the table, and the bottle of whiskey and two glasses. ‘I found it in a cupboard. I have no clue how old it is but—’
‘I don’t care,’ Analise breathed, then realised how desperate she sounded. It was too late to take it back, so she lifted her chin, daring him to say something, but he didn’t, just told her to sit.
She shook as Ezra poured her a glass and their fingers brushed when he handed it to her. Analise caught the quick flush of colour on his cheeks before he sat opposite her, and her heart accelerated. She usually avoided touching people, live ones anyway, unless she was drunk. Alcohol created a barrier between her and her magic and now, without it, she was on edge. It made her remember the gloves she’d worn as a child, when her magic was fresh and terrifying.
‘Here I was, thinking you were an unfriendly person, but now I understand. Your eyes are glassy, your hands are shaking, you’re sweating … no one can spot an addict better than another addict,' Ezra said softly.
Relief flooded her. There was something liberating about him knowing. She didn’t need to lie or make excuses. That he could recognise it made her realise he wasn’t lying. He didn’t say anything else, but Analise wanted to talk about it. Maybe, sharing this one thing with someone, would help.
‘I drink because life is shit. It … helps. I live in the worst slum in the city. I work in a morgue. I barely have enough to eat, and I don’t know how to be around people because what do I say to them? My name is Analise and I have a drinking problem because I can talk, I mean Iworkwith dead people?’
Fuck. Ezra was watching her.
Never let anyone know what you are.
‘I get it,’ he said, lowering his gaze to his glass.
‘What’s your poison?’ she asked.
