Page 94 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I can control it—the thing that’s always controlled me.
I can do this.
“The moment it becomes too much, say something,” I tell him.
“You could never be too much.”
I bite my lip, nodding. Then I place my hand on his cheek, shutting my eyes. My shields fall into place; I block anything from coming out.
I feel him, fast and slow, until I see that he’s showing me something through his emotions. Love, like I’ve never felt before. Making my hands tingle and my heart flutter.
I feel safe.
Safety I don’t deserve.
So I open my eyes. Azaire is smiling softly at me. Only then do I realize his hand is resting on mine—his skin pressing gently, both above and below.
He’s all around me.
“You’re beautiful.”
I shake my head.
“No,” he says. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had the good will to feel.”
My brow furrows.
Azaire picks up my hand, kissing it again and again.
He says he doesn’t know what he did to deserve me.
I ache.
“What did you feel?” I watch his face carefully, staring back and forth between both his eyes, searching.
He kisses me again.
“You,” he says. A smile. A shrug. “I think.” He raises one free hand and wiggles his fingers. “Look at that. Not dead.”
“Not dead,” I whisper.
I can touch someone.
Chapter 19
Too Much Skin in
the Game
T
he next morning, I walk fast through the halls, heart pounding, the memory of Azaire burning just beneath my skin. I’d like to tell someone—I’d like to scream it from the rooftops.
I can touch someone.
Yet I still watch my feet as I walk.
With each step, I refrain from meeting gazes. With each step, I think of the horrible thing I’ve done.
