More words.
“I’ve never talked this much before in my life. My throat is starting to get sore.” I grimace when he begins tracing the lines of my ribs with his finger. “What are you doing?”
“You’ve just mentioned strict workouts and diets… Are you thinner than you’re supposed to be, my love?”
Yeah. Probably. Or, rather, definitely. Nevertheless, I say, “I’m on my back, and it’s the middle of the night, so I haven’teaten anything for hours. My stomach’s concave.” It is an empty little pit. That Castor is dappling with kisses.
The first time a man kissed my stomach it was on a beach in Hawaii. I forget exactly what brand the shoot was for, only that it wasswimsuits. I was in a bikini, but it felt like I was naked. My modeling partner lifted me up into the wind on request, pressed a kiss to my bare skin while Ismiled as though this was my honeymoon, and…that was that.
Or I wishthat was that.
Afterward, that man cornered me by the flimsy changing rooms and asked if I wanted to keep pretending we were on a honeymoon.
I poke Castor in the cheek. “Why don’tyoudo some talking?” And stoptouching me.
“You don’t like it when I touch you?”
“Did I say that out loud?”
He lifts his head away from me and removes his hand from my bones. “You did.”
I scan him as he tucks his hands into his robes. “And…you’re going to listen?”
That male model hooked his finger in the flimsy tie of my swimsuit and undid the bow. I had to catch the strings and watch for stray cameras. My mother loved scandals. Scandals sold. Romance stories of elicit acts got me interviews and TV appearances. Kept me in thepublic eye.
I never wanted to be there. And I definitely didn’t want naked photos of meeverywhere.
“Well?” I mutter into another sucrose sip of wine.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why should I answer yours?”
“What was your question again?”
“You don’t like when I touch you?”
Even though he’s pulled away, I can still feel the snakes his fingers drew into me. They aren’t haunting me like so many other touches have. Maybe it’s because I’m in a nightgown and robe that covers everything from my neckline to my ankles. Maybe it’s because we’resoulmates. A laugh bursts out of me at that thought, and Castor’s head tilts, so I wave his apparent curiosity off. Even though he can’t see my flippant fingers, I assume hecansense them moving. “Don’t be ridiculous. Ilovewhen strangers touch me. Being an object for strangers to enjoy is all I live for.”
Castor’s smile sharpens.
I tense, and my foggy mind reaches for the break in the tide as a spike ofdangergoes slipping down my spine.
Bracing an elbow on the couch, Castor plants his chin in his fist. “Shall I take their lives or merely their hands?”
“You really probably should get a handle on your murder happiness, actually,” I whisper. “It can’t be healthy to want to kill everyone all the time.”
“People should stop being so murderable, then,” he mutters.
The tension eases away, and I giggle, going back to playing with his hair, letting the silky strands slip through my fingers. Again and again. “People are stupid. And selfish. That doesn’t mean they should die. In some ways, life is a better punishment than death ever could be.”
Castor’s face falls. “I know that… I dislike that your life has also led you to such conclusions, my love.”
I lift a shoulder. “It’s fine. I’m numb to it.” I’m numb to a lot of things, actually. Things that maybe would keep less-numb people from drinking faerie wine with a faerie man who has in no uncertain terms expressed an interest in romantic affairs.
Anything could happen.
But would I care enough about it in the morning?
Or would it just be something else to add to the list of reasons I don’t feel like a person?
