"That’s the real you, and he’s beautiful," he says calmly. "I’m not afraid of him."
"But I am…" I push through pain.
His hand stays outstretched. My eyes flick over his body, and for a moment I can barely breathe. He looks carved from stone, not an ounce of fat, every muscle perfectly shaped. His golden skin gleams under the winding tattoos, white, silver, and goldlines that ripple with light. He doesn’t look human at all, but something otherworldly.
I swallow hard, words stuck in my throat. Flirting isn’t my thing. Even with the gaps in my memory, I’m sure of one thing: before Anzo kidnapped me, I never had a boyfriend. My life had been sheltered, my parents terrified anyone would discover my power and end the fragile bubble I lived in.
Answering him directly hurts, but silence feels worse. This is a moment we need to face, Snow and I, so I force myself through the ache in my chest.
"I like your tattoos," I manage.
Pain rakes through me, but I refuse to let it stop me.
Snow smiles gently and exhales. "They’re not tattoos, Summer."
I freeze. Not tattoos?
Before I can stop myself, curiosity wins. My hand lifts toward him, trembling, and I press my palm against his chest.
A pleasant jolt rips through me.
I let out an embarrassing moan.
In an instant the fog that clouds my mind vanishes. My memories flood back. Every event, every thought, every piece of my power, suddenly clear and within reach.
Now, speaking will be effortless. Why did I fight it for so long? Why doubt, when I could just fall into this and accept everything that comes with it?
I stroke his chest with my hand a little more boldly, feeling his skin, and I realize: the white markings radiate light, the thin golden ones radiate warmth, and the silver ones radiate cold.
"You’re not human; you’re like me," I whisper. "We’re different."
Snow nods.
"Sometimes alien DNA concentrates," he explains. "And sometimes it becomes a gateway. Through it passes the power of the one who created the aliens."
"You mean Fate," I say. "He’s real."
"Yes."
"Like… some omnipotent being?"
"That word works, though it’s still imperfect."
"What comes through those gateways?"
"That’s a bigger conversation. Maybe one we save for when you show me your true form?"
I exhale shakily.
"The problem is I can’t reveal it just like that. Since childhood, I’ve had this fear drilled into me. I need to push through it to open up…"
"To trust more?"
"I guess… And to also trust myself."
My fingers still move over the patterns on his chest. The glow shifts beneath my touch, tiny impulses flowing downward, and when I glance there, I see undeniable proof of what that touch is doing to him. The electric pulses of light concentrate, and flux toward his lower abdomen.
Yeah, the bulge.
