Dorian’s breath comes out a little shaky. He clenches his hand into a fist, still braced against the wall above me. He has the strong hands of an athlete. I wonder what it would feel like to grab his bare hand. To feel his skin on mine.
“What would you like me to do?” He’s nervous. I can sense it. The nervous energy is rolling off of him in waves.
“Whatever you want.”
His gaze drops to my lip again, pausing for the span of a heartbeat, before it snaps back up to my eyes.
I ache with desire.
“Finch, it’s…” His gaze roams the space around my lips, and he bites at his lower lip.
I sense the rejection coming, and I bat it away before it can hurt me. “Right, I know, it’s stupid,” I say. “Forget I mentioned it.”
“I didn’t say it’s stupid.”
Hope can be like hunger. Once you’ve gone long enough without what you want, one bite can make you sick. But there’s something in his eyes, a hunger of its own kind that reignites the hope I’ve grown so used to starving with. It leaves me to wonder what he truly desires.
Dorian, do you want me?
The question hangs between us, the air alive with tension. Just then he moves closer, and my breath catches. His lips part as he presses his chest so close to mine that I can feel the beating of his heart, pounding like a drum, each beat sending shock waves through my skin. I lean toward him—
A loud crack reverberates throughout the tall chamber. I turn, catching sight of Warden Stone lifting a book from the floor. He must have dropped it a second earlier when I wasn’t looking. Dorian withdraws, flattening his back against the wall, shifting so our bodies no longer touch.
Warden Stone tucks the book beneath his arm and moves behind a tall tow of shelves. A door closes, banging shut.
“Is he gone?” I whisper.
Neither of us knows the answer.
We wait, listening, but the room is silent, save for the crackle of the fire, Dorian’s soft breathing, and my own heart beating out a plaintive rhythm.
“Let’s go,” I say. The morning shift will likely be here soon.
I peek out from our hiding spot. Warden Stone is gone.
Dorian follows behind me as I dart into the room. I look for a book, any book that looks interesting, and point to one.
“There, that one, with the blue cover,” I say.
Using the key to unlock the cage, Dorian slips the book from its shelf.
We make our way to the door, lock it behind us, and then we’re sprinting down the darkened tunnel, Dorian with the book in his hands, and me still wondering if he almost kissed me.
10
Raven
Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action for no other reason than because he knows he should not?
—Edgar Allan Poe,“The Black Cat”
Waiting for Atticusand Dorian is an exercise in patience, and I am not patient. Back at home, I rotate between sitting on the couch or the breakfast table downstairs, or on the bed upstairs, and finally end up standing in the landing, hoping for the door to open. I check the window, but all I can see is wet pavement glinting beneath the streetlamps. The clock on the mantel tells me it’s three in the morning, and the street remains infuriatingly empty except for the occasional headlights of a slowly rolling car, or a stray cat darting across the lanes.
I jump when there comes a sharp triple knock.
On my feet in an instant, I rush to the door and yank it open.
“We did it, Raven. Holy shit, we did it!” Dorian’s voice carries as he holds up a leather-bound grimoire. He and Atticus look flush with excitement, their identical smiles lighting up the dark hallway.
