Those words send a ripple of emotion across his face, softening all of his harsh angles and lighting up his dusky eyes.
I bend over to grab my bag, but Slate swipes it from between my legs and hooks it over his shoulder, dangling it from a single crooked finger.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
We’re standing so close I can count each and every curled lash, can spot the faintest flutter of his pulse at his temple, can smell the warm soap on his skin beneath the scent of smoke that clings to him as doggedly as it clings to me. He leans in infinitesimally closer, and my lips unseal over a shallow breath.
I am outrageously and irrevocably attracted to this boy. So much so that I truly wonder if magic isn’t involved. Yes, I’m young, but there’s something about Slate that makes every nerve ending in my body clang, every inch of my skin heat, every muscle clench.
Before he can move any closer, I jerk my palm up and slap it against his warm T-shirt and the heart thundering beneath.
Easing him back, I whisper, a tad huskily, “I’m not done sorting through my jumbled feelings, Slate.”
The fingers not holding my bag rise to my face and tuck back a lock of hair that’s escaped my ponytail. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re not?”
He runs his fingertips along the side of my throat, down my arm, over my knuckles. “I’m not.”
“I’d really like to believe you.”
“Then do.”
I stare into the conduits to his soul. “I don’t know you well enough for that.” I run the tip of my index over his knuckles, then down one finger, back up, down another. “But I’m willing to get to know you. You’re just going to have to give me a little time.”
His pupils bloat, and he swallows. Audibly.
“I want to hear about your past, Slate. All of it. The ugly parts too. But later. And in private.” I tip my head toward our three-person audience.
When I pivot, they all avert their gazes. All except Adrien. He no longer has eyebrows, but the space where they used to be seems puffed up a little. I want so much for that look to mean nothing more than curiosity, but I’m so finetuned to his micro-expressions that I sense his perplexity. I don’t know if it’s because he feels protective of me or if it runs deeper. I don’t care to dig, though.
I start to walk toward them when I hear the squeak of tires against marble. I tilt my head up, find Papa peering over the wrought-iron balustrade at me. My throat tightens because I love him. And I know he loves me. But I’m still angry at how he handled things with Slate.
Slate’s hand drifts to my lower back. Papa’s face becomes so distorted with rage that I have to look away because he’s frightening. I shiver, which earns me a slow stroke of thumb against the base of my spine. Comforting heat trickles through the thick red wool and soothes the blaring tension locking up my vertebrae. Not bearing to look upon Papa’s face any longer, I let Slate guide me away from him. Once the blue door clicks shut behind us, I drink in a breath and then another, the cold moisture sticking to my lungs, numbing the lining of my throat, scorching my palate.
“Get ready to be murdered, Slate,” Alma singsongs.
“That’s not funny, Alma.” Papa lied to protect me from Slate. Murdering reputations is vastly different from cold-blooded killing.
Her smile fades in increments, like grime melting beneath pressurized water. “Um . . . it was a joke. I’m sorry.”
Slate strums the base of my spine again as we walk. “Cadence, your dad can’t hurt me.”
“He has a lot of influence.”
“In this town maybe, but—”
“As long as you’re here, hecanandwillmake your life hell.”
He smiles at me as though it were the silliest thing he’s ever heard.
I shake my head. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I do.” His smile doesn’t decrease in intensity, though.
“Then why are you grinning?”
