“So? I fucking dropped you and?—”
I nip his lower lip to stop him from finishing that guilt-ridden statement before peering into his golden irises. “Who cares? That’s nothing when we almost lost each other.”
His molten gaze grows so uncharacteristically sorrowful and broken that it makes my chest twinge as he shakes his head, swallowing hard.
“Not right now. I can’t talk about losing each other right now. Please. Because if I start to think about what happened six months ago, I—fuck, Ican’t,” he rasps, shutting his eyes and shifting to rest the back of his head against the wall. He breathes in and out at a measured pace, trying to calm himself down. “Distract me with something. Anything.Please.”
I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I was in Paradise. Not that I remember much of it yet.”
He peeks one eye open. “Everett mentioned that.”
“Syntyche is my mother.”
“Yeah. He mentioned that, too.”
Realizing that Baelfire knows what I am and is treating me exactly the same as before is such a relief that I beam at him.
His face lights up again, attention pinned to my mouth. “Holy fuck, I’ve missed that.”
“Missed what?” Everett demands from the bed.
“None of your business, Popsicle Prick.” Baelfire boops my nose with his. “When we get out of this Frosty shithole, I’m going to need a lot more of those from you, my cute little demigoddess.”
I fix him with a firm look even as I try not to smile. “Not cute. I see ghosts and reap souls. I’m the daughter of Death.”
“Sure, and you’re alsoso.Fucking.Cute.I bet you look like a queen while you’re reaping.Myqueen.”
He kisses the tip of my nose, trailing more light kisses up and down my neck.
Gods, I’ve missed him and his persistent flirtiness.
But wait…
I tense, straightening as much as I can in this stupid, chained-up straitjacket. “Fuck. Where’s my scythe?”
“Confiscated along with anything else they found on our person,” Crypt says. His markings light up again, and he hisses in pain. “They took my lighter, too, and would have taken Decimus’s self-discipline, if he had any left.” He gives the shifter a pointed look. “Our girl is still exhausted. Give her space before your touch starts to bother her.”
Baelfire pouts, but still hasn’t moved away. “Is this bothering you yet, Mayflower?”
I want to tell him I’m more than fine with the touching—in fact, I’m craving anything I can get from my matches, after all that time I spent agonizing over whether they were still alive.
But before I can speak, the door to this suite opens and three people walk in. Two of them are legacies in fitted suits, and the third is a woman dressed impeccably well with a camera hanging from her neck.
Before I can register the fact that strangers have barged in, the woman snaps a picture of Baelfire’s face pressed against my neck and my startled expression.
“Ah, good. The tape’s already off. Maven Oakley,” one of the suited men greets stiffly as he gestures at the big desk in the room surrounded by four chairs. “It’s time for your pre-trial interview.”
23
MAVEN
My what now?
The other suited man leans as if he’s about to haul me to my feet since this straitjacket inhibits me. He smells like women’s perfume.
But the second he gets close, Baelfire snarls and makes that odd noise deep in his throat before blue flames ignite the legacy’s suit coat. The legacy shouts and flings off his coat, stomping it out and stumbling away from us.
“Try to touch her one more time, I fucking dare you,” Bael warns, breathing out smoke as he speaks.
