Page 58 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
There’s no one else around. No other group with Azaire, worried about the girl lying on the ground, possibly dead. There’s no other person who cares.
“I don’t understand.” I lean into him more. “How did you notice me?”
No one else did.
Azaire leans back slowly, staring at me in disbelief. He feels that way too, as if I’ve asked an outrageous question.
“Wendy,” he sighs. “I always notice you.”
I shake my head, my gaze falling, unwilling to meet his.
If he’s always noticed, then he must know that I feel the same. That it terrifies me.
“I don’t deserve it,” I say.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be strong. You don’t have to carry it all alone. You’re allowed to give in.”
My heart falters as I meet his gaze, slow and searching, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. My mind caught between uncertainty and longing. “You don’t understand what giving in means for me.”
“The only way I’ll know,” he mutters, picking up my hand, holding my arm that’s riddled with thorns, “is if you show me.”
His fingers curl around mine, lifting my hand to his chest, where I feel his heart beating steadily beneath his skin.
I think he’s going to pull me close, and this time instead of holding me, he’ll kiss me. A kiss that feels long delayed.
That doesn’t happen.
His brows furrow, his gaze lingering at my wrist—at the thorns peeking out where my sleeve cuts off. Then, he murmurs, “What is this?”
I jerk my arm back, panic rising.
“Did someone do this to you?” The question slips from his lips, laced with horror.
“No,” I say, my eyes avoiding his. “Of course not.”
But his gaze sharpens, the gentleness replaced by something darker. He thinks I’m lying. Quite perceptive, because Iamhiding.
“Who?” The word lands between us, and I have no answer. At first, I can’t read him, can’t place the shift in his demeanor. But when he asks again, voice trembling—“Who did this to you?”—I realize what I couldn’t place is anger.
I’ve never felt Azaire angry.
And it reminds me of Lucian, standing vigil over an unconscious Desdemona, transfixed upon her. At that moment, I knew Lucian would do anything to keep Desdemona safe.
In this moment, I realize that Azaire feels the same about me. It’s the same fierce devotion.
Without thinking, I move closer, my gloved hand gently cupping his cheek. He sucks in a deep, uneven breath as I lift his face to mine.
But he still won’t meet my gaze.
“Azaire,” I whisper, “look at me.” His eyes finally lift, the gray in them crashing like tumultuous tides. Roaring like relentless thunder. Churning like swirling storms.
“Who, Wendy?” he mutters, his voice deep, dark—dangerous.
Something I’ve never heard from him before.
