The way she watches me feels remarkably like being burgled. Stupidly, I blurt, “What?”
“It’s honestly very impressive, making the chaos mean something. That’s what you do, isn’t it? I’m looking at it right now. The way you note the weather has more to say than the people, how you argue with each character in the margins… You turn everything, including people, into something readable.” She lets out a delighted laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth. “It’s like subtitles for the world! Iloveit.”
The observation wounds me, leaving my chest gaping and bleeding. In that instant, I want to flinch because her unrestrained delight is almost unbearable. Shadows creep back despite the late hour, and the flames in the hearth crackle. I want to snatch the sound of her laughter and her amazement, bottle it, weaponise it and pour it down my father’s throat until he chokes on it, until he tastes the miracle of being seen without needing correction or suspicion.
I’m left trembling with both gratitude and fury.
My grin is crooked, a little unstable. “High praise from the local cryptid.”
She doesn’t accept my attempt at making the moment lighter than what it is. “I wish Miss Donovan explained it like this.” The book shuts gently, and she hugs it to her chest and grins. “Maybe I’d have liked it. I think I’ll read it again, though. Your way.”
Warmth unfurls behind my ribs. As if my way is worth it.Fuck me. Nobody’s ever wanted my way before. I picture her tracing my writing, smiling at the dry comments I’m never able to keep inside my head. Giving her that copy would be akin to loaning out a portion of my brain.
Still, I nod, telling her, “Keep it.”
Gloriously, she basks in her victory and then vanishes towards the shelves. Soon after, she’s curled up on the armchair again, another book in hand.
The air between me and her seat is thin, and I glance towards the cabinet where I’ve hidden the journal. I pour the fourth glass anyway, already plotting ways to undo my own laziness. Gifting her silence seems an insult. It’s nowhere near enough to give her, not after this. She whispers to herself and readsmywords—and I know she’s stolen my tongue, keeping it within her mouth.
Obscene. I can’t breathe. There’s my name on her lips, the graphite of my pencil staining her breath with the colour of my mind. The truth slams a battering ram behind my teeth, and I’m weak against its strength.
I reach for rationality, but Francesca lets a laugh slip as she turns the page, and it snaps clean through. “You’reindecentlyexquisite.”
There we go. Mouth has fucking mutinied.
She stops mid-page turn, as if someone holds a knife to her pulse. The book becomes an ancient relic pressed to her sternum when she looks up, pupils widening in increments, and I notice because I’m categorically insane.
I’ve got to be the worst version of all the Atherbournes who have come before because there’s a Sheffolk seated opposite me, drowning in the depth of my words, and all I wish to do is rescue her with my mouth. Breathe the truth into her; make her taste the indecency of what she’s done.
Which, of course, are not the thoughts of a rational man. They’re inappropriate. Undignified. First step is admitting it, I suppose.
Small and incredulous, she murmurs, “What?”
I set my glass down, unbothered despite my heart pounding. “You heard me.”
The red climbing her cheeks can’t decide whether she’s furious or flustered. “I—oh, what does that even mean?”
“It means that your existence is a violation of logic. That the sight of you like this—reading my notes—is an obscenity to my good senses.Visually distressing, has anybody ever used those words to describe you? Because it’s the truest description I can come up with?—”
She shuts the book and jumps to her feet before I can finish. “Is this about my compliment, then? What I said about your mind? Because I meant it sincerely, Eric, and if you’re going to mock me as a form of petty revenge?—”
“I’m calling youbeautiful, Francesca,” I interject, standing too. Her eyes are wary, too much like the butterfly Edmund believes her to be. She’s blinking too fast, skittish in anticipation of being trapped by something sickly sweet. “Does the accuracy of the word offend you? Because I won’t apologise and dilute the truth for your comfort.”
Fuck, and now she’s stomping across the carpet on a mission, planting herself beneath me with her hands on her hips. Blushing, furious, and utterly exquisite. The petulance of it nearly has me chuckling because Lady Homicide apparently doesn’t know how to accept a fucking compliment.
“You can’t—you can’t justsaythings like that,” she pokes, lower lip trembling against whatever else she’s struggling to voice. “Oh my god, and what exactly am I supposed to say in return?”
“Nothing, because it’s not a debate; what the fuck is your problem?” The bite of my question is blunted by the laugh that follows.
“My problem is your mouth and what comes out of it, Atherbourne.”
“My mouth?” I echo. “Then tell it what you’d rather want it to do, and maybe I’ll be obedient for once.”
A microfracture wounds all rationality, and then the entire structure crumbles. Belatedly,stupidly, I realise there’s no more distance. Her every heavy exhale hits my chest, lashes fluttering like she’s witnessing something she’s only ever read about. That bewilderment in her gaze makes me think she’s picturing something dumb.
Probably comparing me to a fanfic version of Darcy.
She tilts her head, nearly choking on the honesty of what she says next. “What Iwant, you wouldn’t be able to survive.”
