1
“Acelina.” My mother’s eyes fill with tears as she looks me up and down. “You’ve grown. And you’re so beautiful, even with the bruises.” She steps forward, and my heart beats even faster. I should move away. I should scream for Jacques to come in and break the spell I’m obviously under.
But I can’t.
Because real or not, I don’t want her to go away yet. I haven’t laid eyes on my mother in years. It’s been so long since I last heard her voice I started to forget what it sounded like.
And now she’s here.
But she’s not here. It’s not possible.
Her fingers brush against my skin, sending a shock of electricity through me. Her touch is comforting yet cold, and my own eyes start to flutter shut, wanting to surrender to the comfort of my mother because I could really fucking use it after the day I’ve had.
Then it hits me and I jerk back. My mother is here, trying to soothe me. Mydeadmother.
“Who are you?” I ask, taking on a defensive stance.
Mom’s eyes soften and she looks at me almost with approval, as if my questioning makes her proud.
“It’s me, Ace. Mom.” She pushes her hair back over her shoulder and I see the little cluster of freckles on her neck. They’re pale, hard to see in the dim light, and form the rough shape of a heart. She used to tell me I’d get my own heart-shaped mark on my neck someday, but only if I spent enough time in the sun. “Though I think I should be asking who you are. You’re not the little girl I tucked into bed all those years ago. I don’t think that Sleeping Beauty nightgown you loved so much would fit you anymore.”
Her words send another jolt through me, and when I blink, I see us on that night…the night she died. I wasn’t able to remember the details before, but now they’re rushing back. I pulled the nightgown out of the dirty laundry, insisting it didn’t need to be washed just yet. It was long, pink, and silky, with itchy lace sleeves I put up with every damn night because I felt like a princess in that silly gown.
I open my mouth only to snap my jaw closed. This is my mother. It has to be. Who else would remember something like that? Hell, it’d been blocked even from my own memory. Suddenly, emotion hits me in the chest like a dagger, and a sob bubbles up from deep inside me. I put my hands over my mouth, not used to crying, and blink away tears.
“Oh, Ace,” Mom soothes, moving forward. She takes me in her arms and her embrace feels both natural and wrong. “I’d tell you it’s okay, but it’s not.” Her arms tighten around me, making me realize even more how cold her body is. “There’s so much I need to tell you.”
I straighten up, wiping my eyes, and take a breath. “Yeah,” I say with a nod. “And I have a lot to ask you.”
“I’d imagine so.” She smiles warmly and extends her hand to the couch. “Shall we?”
I turn and take a step in the direction of the couch when Hasan comes into the library.
“Ace?” he asks, deep voice rumbling right through me. “Are you all right?”
My mother is standing a foot behind me, but Hasan’s eyes are on me. I freeze, rooted to the spot, looking from him to my mother. He can’t see her. My mother brings a finger to her lips, signaling me to keep quiet. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Ace?” Hasan asks again. I flick my eyes to him, and in that half a second, my mother disappears. Hasan strides forward, putting both hands on my shoulders. He’s concerned, looking at me as if I’ve lost it.
And maybe I have.
Because I’m standing in the middle of a fancy library in this century-old house trying to decide what makes more sense: a half-man, half-gargoyle standing before me or my dead mother wanting to have a chat.
“Fine,” I finally say, though my voice is hushed and flat. I close my eyes, unable to keep a tear from rolling down my cheek. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
I swallow my emotions, squeeze my eyes tight, and take a deep breath. “I look like shit, I know,” I say, and open my eyes. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“You do look like shit, but that’s not what I was referring to,” he counters, raising an eyebrow. He slips his hands down my arms. “You’re shivering.”
“It’s cold in here.”
It’s not cold in here at all, but Hasan doesn’t press. He wraps his arm around me and steps in, cradling my head against his firm chest for a moment before taking my hand to lead me out.
“I can restart the movie,” he says, looking down into my eyes. “We can watch it together.” Hasan isn’t an emotional or cuddly person. He expresses his love by being protective, and when we’re physical it’s because we’re either sparring or having sex.
I must really look like shit.
