I nodded. “Saying you stopped by. Yesterday?”
“No. I didn’t. I’ve been . . .” He searched for the words, then he shook his head. “I can’t tell you. But no.”
Yet it had been his handwriting. His slanted scrawl. His signature. His note.
I poked at the feel of Jagger’s will inside me. I prodded at his roots wrapped around my bones and the drive to hate and to hurt. I tapped the hollow drum of his orders and felt them echo inside me. It was so quiet the usual jarring shout was only a slight vibration.
The train had slowed, swaying softly like an old mare, slope-backed, tiredly plodding down a winding valley.
“If life is illusion,” I said, turning into him and wrapping my arms around his shoulders, “and this is real . . .”
“This is real.” He spanned his hands across my rib cage. He stroked my sides, his thumbs barely brushing over me. Still, the heat of him breached the smooth satin of my dress.
I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his. He tasted like cherries, sweet and tart. Finn had always loved cherries. He let out a sharp exhale, and his grip tightened as he pulled me closer. His mouth was smooth, his lower lip soft, as I feathered my way across him. A tingle started at my lips and then spread over me, racing through my blood. It was a luminous ache, like a rainbow caught in a raindrop just as it hits the pavement. The pain and the pleasure warred inside me. I’d only been gently tracing my mouth over his, a prelude to a kiss, but with a soft, carnal noise, Finn stole the kiss from me and took possession of my mouth.
He breathed my name, rocking against me, pulling me close. The satin of my dress rustled and whispered, and the wool of his tuxedo scraped my arms as he held me. I gasped as he picked me up and spread my skirt so I lay on his lap, sprawled on the narrow bench. My skin flushed and prickled as if I were naked under the noonday sun. Finn drew a plea from me, and he drank it in. He traced the line of my lips, opened my mouth with his, and mimicked the act of love. I lay in his arms glowing, burning, tingling, aching. He was loving me. In his kiss, I felt the echo of the promises we’d sworn the night we married. I surrendered to his love; promised it back.
A tear leaked out of the corner of my eye and fell to our lips, salty and sweet.
Finn paused, his mouth hovering a breath from mine. “Mari?”
I closed my eyes. Another tear fell.
“Does it hurt?”
It was excruciating.
With the pleasure and the echo of love, Jagger’s blood had strengthened. It was devouring and choking. It was . . .
Finn frowned and leaned back.
He gently wiped at the space below my nose. His finger came away covered in blood.
“Nosebleed.”
He pulled the white handkerchief from his tuxedo pocket and cleaned the blood trickling free. When he pulled it away, it was stained red.
“Okay?” he asked. His voice was gruff, as if he were having a hard time speaking.
I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I didn’t trust myself to move. What if I did something like the last time we kissed and stabbed him? I gripped the lace on my dress and concentrated on the scratchiness.
Finn tucked the handkerchief away. The white and the red reminded me of the night Jagger had declared I was officially a mine. It was right after Justice and I fought.
“How did you survive the Clark’s trap?” I asked, thinking about the water illusion.
Finn shook his head. “I didn’t.”
So he’d drowned.
That settled it—this wasn’t real. But sadly, even in dreams, Jagger still had a hold on me. Weak or strong, it was still there.
“You keep dying.” I loosened my hands and frowned at the wrinkled dress.
The train groaned, swayed, and then heaved to a final stop. The doors slid open, and a blast of warm, sea-salt air fanned through the car.
“We’re here,” Finn said, lifting me from his lap and setting me on my feet.
Gently, he took my hand and pulled me from the ghost train.
