“What are the other options?”
Sandra blinks, grins, and returns to the page. She lists off the occupations available, but they all sound as mundane as the last. I finally settle on horticulture and let bygones be bygones. Truthfully, I don’t have the energy to argue, nor is it my right to. The Angelics have already done us a major service by bringing us here, despite my dilemma of facing a false sense of security. In an abrupt change of pace, Sandra turns her attention to Conin. Her mouth twitches, but she locks the smile into place. I’m partial to kicking her teeth in.
“Now, we don’t allow significant others to hold the same position, so we’ll have to assign a different job unless horticulture sounds interesting to you, in which case it’s up to you both to discuss who will take what. But do any of the occupations I listed before strike any interest?”
Conin is silent for an uncomfortable length of time. I count the seconds in my head while he peruses the list Sandra passed over with obvious disinterest. He looks back, adjusts his position on the chair.
“I want a guard position,” he says bluntly.
Sandra blinks with that persistent fake grin of hers.
“Come again?”
“I want a guard position,” he repeats. “I want to do my part to protect Proctus.”
My heart somersaults, soaring to the skies. I would do so many things to him right now if fuckingSandrawasn’t in the room with us.
“Ah, well . . . I’m afraid it’s too dangerous for someone without special abilities to take up a guard position. The liabilities . . . the repercussions. I’m sure you understand.” She swallows.
“I’ve seen guards armed with guns man the walls! Are they recidivists with defensive powers? Not everyone possesses offensive abilities, you know—”
“We prefer not to use the term recidivist here. Angelic will do.”
“My bad, I’m sorry. Who are the Angelics with the firearms, then?”
Guns are not something I believe in, but if it’s one thing the past week has proven time and time again is that we need methods to protect ourselves, no matter how rooted in controversy or the dangers they’ve presented. Conin’s seriously going to fight for this. It’s only right that I let him, though the idea of his potential endangerment terrifies me from head to toe.
“They are indeed Angelics without offensive abilities. It is rather unorthodox for a normal individual to hold a guard position. It’s simply for their safety,” Sandra says, congenially.
“Bullshit,” Conin says and there’s fury in his azure blue eyes—fury I haven’t seen in a while. Sandra’s aghast. She sputters a few words, though nothing concrete, then purses her lips. Nothing can be said to placate a heated Conin. Good luck, bitch. I’ve tried.
“So, people are ostracized here, too? Love to see how things haven’t changed. I’m not justifying the blatant xenophobia around the world, but I had believed Proctus would be different. I believed everyone here would be a unified front, not rooted in ableist ideologies. There are people here who have lost so much, who have sacrificed everything to ensure their loved ones’ safety. People like me—without any powers of their own. I’m just as capable as those without the ability to attack. Give me the means to protect myself and I’ll be just as effective as anyone else on the line. You have my word.”
I could kiss him.
Get the hell out, Sandra.
She swallows again before standing.
“Stay here,” she mutters. “I’ll speak with the council. It’s not up to me to decide, but I will ensure they consider your proposal.”
Proposal.I almost scoffed.
She’s out of the room in a blur before I press tight into Conin and kiss the ever-loving fuck out of his mouth. He groans, then sighs, but leans forward, my entire body aware of his presence. We part and he must see the wild hunger in my face as a mischievous glow sprouts over his own. I’ve been deprived of Conin romantically my entire life, the least we can do is kiss as if the world’s going to end. In my defense, it very well might.
“Christ,” he says under his breath.
“You and me. Tonight,” I whisper.
Conin bites his bottom lip. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks.
“You,” I say. “I don’t think you understand what it means to be me. I don’t like people, Conin. And I don’t just mean that I hate people—”
“I know what demisexuality is, Ezra,” Conin chuckles.
I’m not sure why I’m choosing here out of all places to discuss this with him—to lay my feelings bare on the table. We discussed it briefly after our first time having sex, but we were so caught up in the heat of the moment that there wasn’t much I could say. Something’s gotten into me, something good. A boost of confidence, maybe? Hopefully, Sandra will stay away for a little while longer.
