With my right hand I press the cold, wet wipe to the cut above his eye.
He jerks with a sharp, violent intake of breath, and his eyes squeeze shut. A low groan is ripped from his throat. I feel the sound vibrate through my hand, through my arm, all the way to the center of my chest. It is the most intimate sound I have ever heard.
“Stay still,” I murmur, my voice gaining a confidence I don’t feel.
I clean the wound with meticulous, steady movements. I am no longer a ghost or a scientist, I am a technician performing adelicate task. I focus on the jagged edges of the cut, the welling blood, the pale skin. I focus on anything but the fact that my fingers are tracing the bones of his face, that I am inches from his swollen lips, that his breath is ghosting across my knuckles.
He opens his eyes. His one good eye, a brilliant, pained green, is fixed on me. Cassian is watching me work, watching my face. He is analyzing me, just as I analyzed him.
When the wound is clean, I pick up two butterfly bandages. My fingers are steadier now. I carefully press one, then the other across the cut, pulling the skin together. The bleeding stops.
My task is done.
I should pull away. I should stand up and retreat to the safety of the sofa, but I can’t. My hand is still cupping his jaw. His eyes are still locked on mine. The space between us is a humming, high-tension wire. The antiseptic stings the air, a clean smell layered over the salt and iron of his blood.
Cassian breaks the silence, his voice a low, rough whisper. “You have steady hands.”
It’s not a compliment. It’s an observation, an assessment.
I slowly pull my hand away from his face. The loss of contact leaves my skin feeling cold. “I work in the archives,” I say, the words nonsensical, an attempt to explain the steadiness, to put what just happened back into a neat, sterile box. “I handle fragile things.”
A dark, humorless smile touches his bruised lips. “Am I a fragile thing, Aria?”
“No,” I breathe, the answer immediate and absolute. “You are the least fragile thing I have ever seen.”
He holds my gaze for another long, searing moment. He’s not just looking at me; he’s looking inside me and for the first time, I feel like he can actually see the vast, empty space I’ve been hiding in.
“What now?” he asks, his voice soft, dangerous. “You’ve patched up the monster. You’re not scared anymore?”
He’s giving the power back to me. The next move is mine, and I have no idea what it will be.
Seventeen
Aria
Hisquestionhangsinthe air, a live wire sparking between us.“What now? You’ve patched up the monster. You’re not scared anymore?”
My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs.Scared?Yes. The fear is a hot, electric thrill, a deafening noise that is finally loud enough to silence the void inside me. I want more of it.
I don’t answer with words. The time for words is over.
Slowly, deliberately, I lift my hand. It doesn’t tremble this time. I reach out and press my palm flat against his chest. His skin is hot, radiating a feverish energy. Beneath my hand I feel the solid, steady beat of his heart.Thump-thump. Thump-thump.It’s a rhythm of life, strong and sure.
I let my fingers drift upward from the angry bruise on his ribs, tracing the path of the black ink that covers his skin. My fingertips follow the sharp, elegant line of the raven’s wing etched over his heart. The ink is a part of him, the lines like a secret language written on his skin. I am not just touching him, I am reading him.
He sucks in a sharp, ragged breath as his entire body goes rigid.
“Aria,” Cassian growls my name like a warning. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”
His eyes betray the words, blazing with a desperate hunger. I don’t stop. I meet his gaze, letting him see the truth in mine. I’m not running. I’m not afraid of this.
That’s all it takes.
With a guttural roar he surges forward, grabbing my waist and pulling me onto his lap. “Fine,” he snarls against my mouth, his voice a raw promise of violence and pleasure. “You want to play with the monster? Fine.”
Cassian’s mouth crashes down on mine, a brutal, devouring kiss that tastes of whiskey, blood, and desperation. He stands, lifting me effortlessly and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist, locking him to me. He carries me a few steps and falls with me onto the mattress on the floor. The impact jars my teeth.
In a fluid, predatory motion he rolls, caging me beneath him, his weight a heavy, possessive blanket. He pins my wrists in one of his hands, holding them above my head with an easy, terrifying strength.
