Page 84 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Warmth blossoms in his chest, as if he’s calling the sun into him. “There’s a soup—cured cattle, dried rosemary, powdered pumpkin seed, all mixed with water. My mom would make it when we had the ingredients.” He frowns and avoids meeting my eyes. His gaze is distant, far off, as if looking into a memory. “It’s war food, probably impossible to find now.” He shakes his head, meeting my gaze once more. “It wasn’t any good, anyhow. I think it’s the memory that I like.”
I scoot closer to him, taking off my academy jacket beneath the warm sun. “My mom used to make those wraps.” I rest my head on his shoulder, right in the crook of his neck. “It’s the first time I’ve had one in years, too.”
I decide I’ll give to him what he gave to me: a piece of his mother, gifted in flavor. I’ll find those rare ingredients and make that soup, the same way he found Ma’s ingredients.
Before this, I hadn’t known his mom was dead. It isn’t uncommon to have a dead parent here. Most of the students have parents who are either high-ranking in the military or government. Those with military parents are often the ones who end up orphaned. If their parents weren’t the muscle, they were likely high up in the government—which made them prime targets for torture. While there are fewer casualties among them, they still exist; though the fighting mostly stopped after the end of the Neptharian War, it hasn’t completely gone away.
Azaire’s gaze shifts, landing on the scars that mar my arms. I can feel the question coming before it leaves his lips. For a moment, I think about reaching for my jacket, hoping to close off the conversation before it goes any further.
But I don’t want to.
“What happened?”
I meet his eyes, not sure how to answer. Little light marks cover my skin, remnants of the thorns that have grown there over time—thorns I’ve pulled out, each one leaving a trace. Little reminders of the things I cannot have.
“Power and adolescence,” I whisper. “When I was a kid, my magic was… turbulent.”
Not that the thorns don’t still grow today. They’re just fewer and farther between.
The words linger, but I don’t explain further. I don’t think I have to. I think Azaire knows exactly what I mean.
The first time my magic materialized, it came in thorns. They poked through my skin, from the inside out. Ma ripped each one out with tweezers. The only thing I really remember is the pain.
The blood that dripped at my feet.
Azaire lifts my hand, slowly at first. Reverently. Like he’s trying to gauge if I’ll pull away. Like he’s waiting for permission. I feel a sudden flutter of vulnerability rise in my chest. Then a flicker of doubt.
Should I pull back? Shield myself?
I don’t.
He lowers his lips, brushing across my scars. Tingles shoot up my spine. But I don’t pull my hand away. Instead, I keep my eyes on him, searching for a sign, a pause, a retreat.
But I realize: I don’t want him to stop.
Azaire’s lips trail higher, moving from my arm to my neck, kissing what I never thought anyone could touch.
My eyes close softly, surrendering to the deadly game. Tentatively testing the edges of what I believed was forever out of reach. It’s not just his lips on my skin—it’s his presence in my heart that makes this a risk.
And here I am, willingly throwing myself to chance.
A smile spreads across my face, and IwantAzaire to see it.
A moan escapes me, and IwantAzaire to hear it.
“I would kiss every inch of your skin,” he breathes, his lips barely grazing mine as they trail slowly, deliberately, until they settle just behind my ear. “A thousand times over. Just to hear you again.”
Warmth bubbles in my stomach at his words—at his want. It’s so rare to hear Azaire like this, and I want to hear more.
I turn my head, just enough to meet his eyes, and the feeling intensifies. I glance down at his lips, then back at his eyes.
The silence hones in until there’s nothing in the world but us.
“No one is stopping you.”
His smile is small, almost fragile—but I can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath. His thumb tracing a path across my cheek. The touch is soft—too soft to be casual.
“Then show me,” he murmurs, the words moving through me. “Where are your scars?”
