But there’s nothing.
Just skin. Justlines.
I tell myself it’s because I’m just used to it. But the truth is, pain is all I’ve ever known, it’s etched into me, woven into my very being. To let it go would be to lose the only thing that ever made me feel real. The damage has been done, and joy is too distant. Too fragile.
And every time I ever touched it, I bled.
When I look up again, he’s already watching me. His gaze is still, thoughtful.
I can never be sure what goes through his head. I’m not sure anyone can.
He has his own way of telling the truth, I guess.
Then, without asking, he reaches out and takes my wrist, pulling it toward him. “Again?” he asks, his thumb brushing lightly over one of the fresher lines.
I sigh, dramatic and half-bored. “Nothing I can do about it.”
A strange look flashes across his face, but it’s brief. Practically unreadable. And then his grip tightens suddenly. If I had any sense of self-preservation, I might have flinched at the pain.
Instead, I raise an eyebrow at him.
“You’re really going to let him win?” he asks. “You’re not, are
you?”
“No,” I say finally, the word coming out quieter than I meant it to.
His hand softens again, gliding along my forearm with a kind of care that borders on reverence. “You’re better than that. I’d hate to see you pretend otherwise,” he says after a pause.
I glance at him, and he’s still not looking at me, just my arm, his fingers tracing absent patterns across the skin. There’s a charm in his voice even now.
Then he says, with that same idle softness, “Remember when we used to draw over these?”
His thumb pauses over one of the faded marks, and he laughs under his breath, but it’s quiet. Almost fond.
“We were so ridiculous,” he murmurs, glancing up at me, eyes bright with something I can’t name. “And yet I wouldn’t mind doing it again. If you only asked.”
I lean into the palm of my hand, cheek resting on my knuckles. “Whose idea was that again?”
He finally lets go of my wrist. “I’m not sure,” he says, and it looks like he means it. Like he’s genuinely trying to remember, eyes squinting slightly, mouth drawn in that particular way he has when he’s actually thinking. And for some reason, that makes me watch him even more closely.
I’m not sure what kind of face I’m making right now, but whatever it is, it makes him pause.
“What is it?” he asks, gaze flicking to mine.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, shaking my head.
He tilts his head slightly. “Aspice me iterum sic.”
I blink. “What?”
He leans back slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on me. “Te devorare possem sine te tangere,” Kai says in a language I’m guessing is Latin.
“What does that mean?” I peer sceptically at him, convinced he’s making some kind of joke without my knowing.
Kai’s only response is a slow smile.
SIXTEEN
