Page 131 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“But what if it does?”
“It’s not,” I repeat firmly. “I won’t let it.”
“What if it’s supposed to?” His hands twist into the grass, like if he holds himself hard enough to the ground, he’ll be safe. Safe from the ghosts of his ancestors’ sins. “What if it’s the only way?”
I stare at him. “Are you listening to yourself? Killing someone is never the only way, especially not for a fucking door.”
“Right,” he says.
“A magic, invisible door,” I clarify, to highlight exactly how ridiculous this is. But also to shake him out of this, because it sends shivers of unease dancing down my spine. I suddenly hate him looking at the altar, I hate him looking at the empty space where a door could be.
It can’t have him, I think. It’s not allowed to have him too.
I won’t allow it.
And it doesn’t matter what I actually believe about doors and sacrifices and kings; it’s the kind of morning when I’ll believe anything anyway.
What matters is that I do think people have died on that altar.
What matters is that I will never let Auden Guest be one of them.
I get to my knees and crawl over his legs, meaning only to come between him and the altar, to break his view and block the uncanny tableau behind me, but once I’m there, once I’m straddling his thighs, every thought and intention in my mind slowly fizzes away, like fireworks on a pond.
“Hi,” I say, stupidly.
He peers up at me, the wind ruffling his hair and his ivory T-shirt. Because he’s Auden Guest, he can’t even wear T-shirts like the rest of us, and he’s wearing some wide-necked linen blend that probably costs as much as ten normal shirts. His shorts too—lemon yellow things made for boats and picnics and private lunches in Lake Como.
And all of it is fitted and draped to perfection, hugging the strong curves of his shoulders and the firm swells of his pectoral muscles. Between my knees, the shorts are pulled tight around his thighs, and when I look down, I can see exactly where his thighs curve into his hips. I see exactly where he bulges behind his zipper, and how much he does. Through the thin, expensive blend of his shirt, I can make out the shadow of his navel, the dark pink circles of his nipples. If I wanted to lick him through his shirt, I would know exactly where to.
“What are you doing?” he asks curiously.
“I don’t know,” I say. Neither of us move.
“I think you wanted to help me,” he says, still looking up at me. It’s so strange to be above him like this, to be the one trapping him, caging him. I feel like I can’t catch my breath. “You wanted to distract me,” he goes on, “from my morbid imaginings.”
That’s right, I remember. I remember how he looked when he was staring at the altar. And now he’s looking up at me with something similar and yet so different—color in his cheeks and his breathing fast, and now it’s because of me, it’s all for me.
“Well?” I ask, and when I ask it, I realize I’m breathing fast too. “Is it working?”
His eyes are intense; I think they could burn holes in the air. But his mouth is pure laziness as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and slowly releases it. “Yes.”
“Good.”
For a moment, it’s just this. Only this.
A successful distraction.
And then I brush the hair out of his beautiful eyes.
He catches my hand as I do it, as if to stop me, and I tear my hand away and do it again, deliberately running my fingertips over his forehead and letting all that tousled silk kiss against the backs of my knuckles.
“St. Sebastian,” he warns.
“It’s in your eyes.”
“It’s always in my eyes.”
I do it again, wishing I could watch the flutter of those dramatic eyelashes forever. “I want to see your face.”
