Page 59 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“What would you do to them?” I ask, my heart pounding. “If I told you, what would you do?”
Azaire shakes his head, as if he’s warding off his own thoughts. “Something I’m not proud of…”
“Idid it, Azaire.” My voice breaks. “I did it to myself.”
The anger in his gaze cracks like lightning. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of being alone.” My words ache like a knife to the chest. “I thought I could change it. But I was wrong.”
His head still sways, lips parted slightly as he looks at me. His gaze is a painting, a paradox, blending concern and adoration in a way that feels impossibly tender.
“You have me,” he murmurs at last. “Whenever you want, whatever you need, I’m there.”
His hand rests gently over mine, the heat of his skin searing through my glove, a promise in the press of his touch. He traces the edge of the leather with his thumb, as if memorizing every detail of me, down to my fingertips.
“Nothing, Wendy,” he continues, “not your magic, not even a death sentence, will ever scare me away from you.”
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. The world narrows to the warmth of his hand over mine, the conviction in his voice, the raw honesty in his eyes. Something in me unknots. And for the first time in forever, I let myself believe in someone.
?
In my room, I peel off my long sleeve and sit on the edge of the bed, breath shallow, heart pounding. One by one, I pull the thorns from my skin—jagged little things, buried deep. I wince with each tug, the pain sharp, precise, and awfully familiar. Each thorn clinks softly against the floor before I toss it out the window, as if the night can swallow what I no longer want to carry.
Blood wells up in thin, stinging trails. I press an old shirt against the worst of it, the fabric already stained from past wounds.
It isn’t the first time I’ve done this.
It certainly won’t be the last.
When I’ve finished, and my skin is free of magic, I stand before Calista’s door, contemplating. My hands and their nefarious ways. Mypower. The boy knew it would come to this before I did.
I told him that wasn’t who I am.
Itisn’twho I am. This is only a desperate time, a desperate measure. I stand at the door, tugging at the fingers of my glove as Calista appears.
“I told you I’d come to you when I finished,” she sighs.
First, I look past her shoulder, spotting the book on her desk. The glamour is still in place. She hasn’t succeeded.
Second, I set my hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“You’re not upset or confused that I’m touching you,” I instruct before she can retaliate.
Her pupils widen, her mind becoming pliant.
“You believe in your power.” My voice drops instinctually. “You know you can lift the glamour. I’m going to move my hand, and you are going to let me inside your room. Do you understand?”
Calista stills. A wave of dread washes over me. I’m terrified I’ve done something irreversible—overwritten her mind with emotion. Destroyed her brain.
Then, absently, she nods.
I jerk my hands back, relieved as Calista’s eyes refocus, her usual resolve slowly fading into a confidence. She opens her door, and I step inside. The first thing she does is step toward the desk, picking up the book.
I watch Calista carefully. She weighs the book in her hands, flipping it back and forth.
“You can do it.”
From across the room, she glances up at me, eyes sharp. “I know.”
