Page 51 of The Deathless One
She gripped the sheet in both fists, so hard he worried she might rip it from the wall. “I’m not talking to you.”
He looked left, then right, assuring himself that there was no one else in the hallway before replying, “You’re talking to me right now.”
“Well, I don’t want to.” She brought the sheet closed with another snap.
But that wouldn’t do. He hadn’t felt sensations like these in centuries, and the moment he lost sight of her was the moment he lost all those sensations again. He was back to the cold, unfeeling, bitter existence that had led him to this point, and how dare she try to take that away from him.
Storming into her room, decorum be damned, he followed her to the cot where she had set up a strange-looking nest. The blankets were piled a little too high, and there were quite a few plates lying beside the bed, as though that was acceptable or clean. Her cat sat on top of that pile, a little royal in a crumbling kingdom. It blinked at him before curling up into a tiny ball. Evidently, it also did not want to get involved with him.
She even looked a little dirty and wild. Her hair hadn’t been brushed in days, it seemed, and it billowed around her head like a rat’s nest. There were dark rings around her eyes, but then there were always dark rings around her eyes. He found them rather pretty. A pale purple that made her gaze look bottomless.
She spun on him, those dark eyes flaring with an inner anger that seared him to his bones. “You did this!”
“I did what, nightmare?”
“You made me do this. I felt your magic inside me, and I couldn’t stop you.”
He blinked a few times. “Stop me from what, exactly? I’m not saying I didn’t do it, but I certainly don’t want to take credit for your creativity.”
“You made me kill him.” She snapped out the words, the sound of them cracking from her lips like a whip. “You took control of my body and you made me kill someone who meant something to me.”
He wasn’t following, and she wasn’t making any sense. Shaking his head, he tried to reason with her. “A pageboy meant something to you?Wasn’t he only good for fetching your pretty baubles and supper when you didn’t want to dine with the others?”
“He was a person, and he didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Ah, he saw where the real problem was. Tsking, he approached until she was backed against the wall. Her chest rose and fell with angry huffs of air, her glare searing in its intensity.
He reached forward and wrapped a curl of her hair around his finger. So pretty, glimmering like an oil slick. “Did you really think you were going to take your kingdom back without spilling a single drop of blood? That just because you snap your fingers, your would-be husband will suddenly have to see the madness of his ways? No, Jessamine. You’re going to get your hands bloody, because that is what war is.”
“They’re my people,” she growled, that anger still flashing in her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt any of them!”
“Even the boy who was the reason your mother died? I’ll take credit for his death if that is what you wish. A rat stomped beneath my heel certainly won’t prevent me from sleeping at night, but Jessamine, I don’t control the power you take from me. A part of you wanted him dead for what he did, and so he is dead. That is all. You need to understand that your desires have consequences. Especially when you use magic to fulfill them.”
Her eyes widened as he spoke, and she fought to disagree. He could see the tiny wrinkles gathering between her brows and the sudden frown that formed lines around her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “You did this. You had to have done this, because if you didn’t, then I have to live with the knowledge that I… I…”
“Killed someone?” He braced his forearm over her head, leaning ever closer to the shock and horror in her gaze. “Yes, all humans do. Perhaps they do not realize that a choice they make one morning leads to the death of another, but your little lives are a hand of cards traded for another. You scrabble with tooth and claw to live, and you trade other people’s lives to do so.”
Her long, pretty throat worked in a swallow. “I am not a monster.”
“No.But I am.”
He leaned down, swearing he could smell her. The scent of lilies left on a grave. Faintly clove-like, the barest hint of space and the scent of freshly turned earth. It was a scent he remembered well and loved dearly, if it was possible for him to love anything in this existence.
She planted her hands against his chest and shoved. She wasn’t very strong, though. A mere slip of a woman couldn’t force him to move. Not when she barely came up to his shoulder and was so waif thin that he could see her collarbones protruding and the shadows of her cheeks.
She wasn’t taking care of herself. The thought appeared belatedly in his mind. She shouldn’t look like this. He wasn’t certain if it was her death that had done it, or if perhaps she had always looked like this. A hollow woman, just waiting to be filled.
Fire erupted in his chest, coursing through his entire body. Suddenly, he wanted her to touch him again. He wanted to feel her hands sliding up the flat planes of his chest. Perhaps her fingers would dig into his shoulders, still angry but seeking some other way to release such emotion. He had never felt like this about any witch. He needed to know what she tasted like.
If she smelled like the grave, would she taste just as bitter?
When he didn’t move, apparently Jessamine took that as the opportunity to vent her fury. Amused, he watched as she struck him with her fists. Over and over again, growing more angry with each strike even though he’d have thought this would make her feel better.
Perhaps it was not helpful that he wasn’t reacting. So he flinched just slightly every time her fists hit him.
“Youdid this,” she hissed with each strike. Tears sparkled in her eyes as she repeated the words. “You had to have done this, because if you didn’t, then I was the one who killed him. And then I’d have to live with the knowledge that I killed him and he’s not coming back.”
He let her hit him. Though he would never admit it, it felt good to have someone touch him, even in anger. He hadn’t been touched in centuries and even then, it was usually in violence. But he took whatever touch he could get.
