As Bo splits his fingers, the thin webbing stretches with them, creating small bridges just below each first knuckle. The skin is so thin that I can see the shadow of my fingers through it as I trace the underside.
This piece of him is warm and flexible. I can’t help stroking along the edges, bending my face closer so I can study every detail.
I have the oddest urge to press my lips against the triangle between his thumb and forefinger. Instead, I run the pad of my thumb over the webbing, wondering if I’ll be able to find a pulse.
Bo lets out a noise—part grunt, part gasp—and he fists his hand.
“I’m sorry.” I glance up at him. “Did I hurt you?”
His pupils are blown wide, mouth slightly parted.
“No. Not hurt.” He clears his throat, and his neck, which already holds the touch of a flush, deepens to a red that reminds me of wanting. “No one has ever …”
He doesn’t have to finish that statement for me to understand. To read the words lingering beneath the surface.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about Georgiana. Something obviously went on between them. But maybe it wasn’t physical.
Or maybe it was, and she still avoided his hands.
That second possibility has me seething on two fronts.
The first for Bo, who deserves to be cherished for all of himself.
But also because the thought of her touching Bo brings me an irrational storm of jealousy.
That siren had better keep her talons to herself. The fierce words stay behind my clenched teeth because I have no right to say them.
And I don’t even know why I want to say them.
Bo’s brows furrow, and I scramble to change the subject.
“I wonder if we would have met,” I land on.
“Hmm?” Bo continues to stare at where I trace his webbing.
“If you’d never gotten turned into a statue,” I explain. “If you were forty instead of twenty-three, I wonder if we would have met.”
“We …” He trails off, expression turning introspective. Then he frowns. “We would have.”
“I don’t think so. You deserved better than what Folk Haven was back then. You would’ve found somewhere better.”
Bo’s mouth goes slack, and I’m surprised by his shock. Is it really so outlandish of a thing to ponder? Georgiana was the one who said he’d had plans to leave Folk Haven. If he had, we likely wouldn’t have ever come to know each other.
The thought makes me sad. I like knowing Bo.
But who knows if he feels the same way about me?
And yet I don’t regret our honest confessions.
I’ve never talked to anyone about my parents. I’m only close with my siblings, and they have plenty of their own trauma. No need for me to pile mine on their shoulders as well.
But Bo didn’t fold under the darkness of my past.
And maybe that’s why I give in to the urge to thank him in a way I know I shouldn’t.
Without meeting Bo’s eyes, I dip my chin and place a quick kiss on his knuckles.
“Thank you for showing me,” I mutter.
