Page 50 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I pull him out of the window, both of us laughing when his feet catch on the sill, and I tug him closer, barely managing to steady him.
His hands grip my waist, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. It’s the same way he held me at the dance—only this time, there’s an undeniable intensity in his touch, as if now he knows it’s welcome.
For a breathless moment, we’re standing so close I can feel the rapid beat of his heart against mine. His eyes drop to my lips, and a surge of heat pulses through me, desire coiling like a serpent. Every part of me is drawn to him, every nerve humming with need, my skin burning where his hands rest.
I’ve always wondered if my first time touching a person again would be a kiss.
I can feel his body against mine, every inch of him. I can feel his gaze on my lips, every moment of desire.
It’s the culmination of years of stolen glances, yet in the face of it, we both close our eyes.
Neither of us acts.
I’m the first to pull away, because that’s how it has to be.
I can look.
I can never touch.
We walk through the woods, the sun peeking through the trees. It’s mostly silent, the tension teeming between us, like the calm before the storm.
As if we both know that this is as inevitable as the rain.
Thatweare inevitable.
Azaire is wondering where we’re going—I don’t want to explain before I have to. It’s not a bad surprise, but it’s not for him either.
This is for me.
This is my dream.
To live this day with someone else. Someone who cares.
It’s been a long time since I had that.
We clamber over the rocks and weave through the bushes until a small cedar cottage emerges into view.
Azaire glances at me, his dark brows lifting in surprise—as if he can’t believe I brought him here. As if he already knows what this means to me.
I could almost believe thatheis feelingmyemotions.
The last time I was here, I killed for the first time—tore the eyes out of a pernipe. I try not to let that memory taint my sanctuary as I step through the door.
Inside, the cottage is covered in dust and cobwebs. A thick layer of grime coats every surface, like always. The purple chairs and cushions are decaying with time, and the kitchen is something from the past—only one counter with a wooden mortar and pestle, and a big black iron pot on the floor.
It might be a part of the reason I enjoyed this cottage so much through the years. The world would change, but this stayed the same: dusty, old, and decayed.
The remnants of a world long forgotten. No one has lived in this part of Visnatus since the Arcanian War, before the academy opened. This cottage is, at least, a thousand years old. But it still stands, despite its neglect. Despite its loneliness.
It gives me hope.
“Upstairs is the best part,” I say, making my way to the stairs.
Every step is a different color—an array of dark blues, purples, yellows, greens, and reds.
Azaire likes the second floor, too. A tree has pushed through the home, its trunk breaking through the floor and its branches spreading wide. He steps forward, brushing his fingers against the leaves as the sunlight filters through the stained-glass window. The colors dapple his brown skin in shades of green, blue, and purple.
“What is this place?”
