Page 35 of The Deathless One
“Sybil has all that.”
“Actually, she doesn’t.” Jessamine looked troubled by the thought before she sucked in a breath through her teeth. “So I’m going to get myself something better.”
“You plan on stealing? Princess, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I have money,” she hissed. “And whenever you call me that, it sounds like an insult.”
He grinned and wished she could see that grin. She certainly shivered like she could. “It’s never meant as a compliment, I’ll admit.”
She stood, forcing him upright as well. Perhaps he’d insulted her. She didn’t say another word for a while as she walked across construction planks, stretching from rooftop to rooftop, sometimes backtracking to find a plank and drag it with her. Anyone living on the top floor would know what she was doing, but perhaps the people of this city were so used to danger that they ignored someone scurrying around on their roof like a rat.
Eventually, she reached a roof where she could climb down a fire escape. The stairs on the side of the building must have been ancient. Even in his realm, he could feel them swaying under his weight.
But then she opened up a window and slipped inside, and he lost her.
With no puddles to show him her surroundings, his illusory building just… dissolved. He placed his hands in his pockets and rode the dark ink as it flattened back to the ground, where it eventually conjured a floor-length mirror. Oval in shape, it revealed her image on the other side and matched a mirror in the living realm where she stood.
She was desperately trying to remove her bodice, her arms straining as she reached behind herself to yank viciously at the ties. They were so soiled and knotted, however, they might as well have been one sewn thread.
And he stood there, tongue-tied, watching the lovely line of her neck and the hollows of her collarbones. She was… beautiful. He could see asmall cluster of freckles on her right shoulder, and a little scar underneath her chin. Small imperfections of a princess who had always striven to be perfect. No matter how many times he looked at her, he knew that was the intention. Every memory he’d pawed through said the same thing. She was a paragon, a vision of perfection, a goddess come to life.
And yet, here she was. With freckles and a scar.
“Need help?” he asked through the mirror, his voice perhaps a little too hoarse.
“I can’t get the damn thing off,” she whispered. “Keep your voice down. Someone might wake.”
“They’ll definitely wake up if you don’t stop stomping around in their dress shop.” He peered around her, trying to see more details of the room. “If that’s what you’re standing in.”
“Canyou even help? It’s not like I summoned you.” She looked around and then growled in frustration. “There’s not even a black candle in here.”
Flexing his hands, he tested the boundaries of his own magic. Stepping forward, he found he could reach through the glass. He could almost feel the warmth of the store. Someone had recently left. Surely the heat would have already leaked out the drafty windows if they hadn’t. A fire might still be in the hearth, if the shopkeeper was a risk-taker.
“Oh,” she said, then turned away from him and backed into his hand.
He could feel the ties. The silken threads that even now were still so soft to the touch. Letting his eyes drift shut, he traced his fingers along the boning of the corset. When was the last time he’d felt texture? Anything other than damp and cold?
The cloth was warm from her skin, and he wanted to linger there. The scars on the tips of his fingers caught on the delicate fabric, and he could hear the scrape of his rough flesh against the thin weaving.
She shivered. He knew he was playing with fire, because eventually she’d tell him to stop. She’d take away the sensation that he hadn’t felt in hundreds of years. He told himself to rush, but then the soft tail of her straight, dark hair brushed the back of his hand. Danced over the scars there, too, and oh… It was lovely.
Curling his fingers into claws, he used a surge of magic to slice through every single thread that held her corset onto her body in one clean swipe.
He heard her sharp gasp, and then there it was. Against his scarred, swollen fingertips, the warmth of her back. Like velvet. He could feel the delicate ridges of her spine. Then, as she bent, his fingers trailed down the piano keys of her ribs.
Her body sang a symphony of texture and warmth and sensation in just the briefest touch.
He blinked, opening his eyes to admire the delicate sway of her back before him. So pale he could see the spiderweb network of veins underneath it. If he looked hard enough, he swore he could see the beat of her heart through her ribs. A fragile little bird in front of him, all painted in ivory and silk.
“Thanks,” she muttered, her voice a little wobbly. “Can you not look for a second?”
The Deathless One tried to swallow and found it almost impossible to speak yet again. Clearing his throat, he took a step away and turned his gaze from the mirror. “Of course.”
She slipped out of view, and he berated himself again. He had told her that he did not miss the touch of a woman, and he didn’t. He knew where that touch led, no matter how tempting or lovely it was. Yes, she was so delicate, and of course, it made his entire body clench with need. But if he gave in, she would use him and take whatever she wanted from him. He refused to fall to a witch ever again.
Pulling his mantle of darkness around him like a well-worn cloak, he returned to the mirror after he heard the rustle of fabric. This time, he wore the same face she must have come to expect. A god who had nothing in this world. A creature who was made to tease and test and perhaps even annoy.
She stepped in front of the mirror in a woolen white shirt that was far too big for her, draped over worn leather pants that actually fit. Fiddling with the sleeves, she looked up at him, and a wave of her dark hair fell in front of her eyes. Staring into that obscured, he reminded himself yet again that he was not here for her.
