Page 87 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
You lose control.
And I don’t want to tell Azaire the mental strain it takes to kiss him. How much work I put in to maintaining my shields—keeping my power in and protecting him. I don’t want to tell him why I wear the gloves.
Yet I feel that he deserves something from me. Some kind of an answer.
“When I was five, I felt someone’s emotions for the first time.” I try not to sound like I’m struggling to say the words. “My brother, Terran. I’d accidentally wrapped him in tendrils.”With thorns, I don’t say. Some truths are too bitter. “He was only a little more afraid of me than he was disgusted.”
Azaire’s fingers freeze on top of mine. But he doesn’t feel like he automatically understands me, and for that, I’m grateful. I don’t quite know what he thinks—but I feel like I can tell him more.
He reaches up, holding my cheek in his hand. There’s just enough moonlight coming in through the windows to see his eyes. It’s the kind of look that makes me wonder what he’s seeing, even though I can feel him.
“Gods, you’re making this hard,” I breathe, leaning my head further into his hand.
“What?” He smiles. Fangs and all.
“Keeping my distance.”
“Well,” he says, and I can feel the heat of his face in my own cheeks, “I never hoped it would be easy.”
It never was.Can I communicate with my eyes? If I can, that’s what they’re saying.
“Can I…” I trail off. “Can I tell you something?”
Azaire tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, the tips of his fingers grazing my cheek. “Anything.”
“You know what I said? About power and adolescence not mixing well…”
Azaire nods.
“Before I came to this school, I had a friend—Xander. I made the mistake of touching him.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “His was the first funeral I ever attended.”
Azaire opens his mouth, but I shake my head, moving closer. Our noses nearly touch, and my voice is barely audible.
“After my mom died, I lost hope. I believed I was cursed—that anyone who cared about me would end up hurt. I pulled away from the world, became a ghost among the living. And from that loneliness…” I pause, voice thinning. Then, “Something inside me made him. The boy, I call him.” A soft, self-conscious laugh escapes, cracked by tears. “I know it sounds strange. But ever since you and I got together… he’s been gone. Like he was never real. I don’t know whether to thank you or blame you for that—but I needed you to know. Someone had to know.”
Azaire nods, as if it isn’t the most insane thing he’s ever heard. It must be.
Yet he seems to understand, somehow.
“Loss is never easy,” he says softly. “Give me your pain, Wendy Estridon. I can handle it.” He picks up my hand, his grip steady. Far steadier than I am. “I can carry it.”
I shake my head, staring at his hand in mine. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Not at all. I’ve hurt people the same way… with my snakes. It’s no surprise your mind would try to protect you. If I’m honest, I think I would’ve done better with a friend like that, too.”
The weight of his words shifts my gaze to the side, unsettling something deep inside me. I can’t say I agree with Azaire—not fully. I’m not sure if the boy is just a coping mechanism. For the first time, I wonder if I believe he’s something more.
If I truly believe he’s real, even without a body of flesh and bone.
?
I stop at the kitchen, sitting on the stool as I wait for Eudora, the academy chef, to appear. When she emerges, I meet her gaze. She’s always stood out—Eunoia are rare at the academy, and hers is one of the few familiar faces.
Her dark hair is always in a tight bun, never the traditional braid like the others. Her skin is a warm, rich brown; her eyes a vivid green that borders on turquoise—much lighter than anyone in my family.
“Hi Eudora,” I greet her.
“What do ya need, Wendy?”
