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He looked away.
I swallowed. “Intimate?”
“Yes.”
And that’s what stung the most.
The witchcraft, the secrecy, the threat; I would somehow deal with all that.
“Supposed to be,” I repeated.
He had the same look I’d seen the day before, in the jeep, and by the fire, like he was arguing with his own restraint. It had the annoying effect, in the moment I needed it the least, of being devastatingly hot.
“I can’t protect you if I get too close to you.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been in this for a long time,” he said, looking past me for a moment, at the horizon that was almost black. “There was…I tried, once, to be something they didn’t want me to be. I got close to someone the real way, and I kept her safe for as long as I could, and I lost.” His voice had gone flat. He let out a breath, then continued: “I want you to know that before whatever this is goes any further. The one time it mattered most, I lost, and I was…” He hesitated, still looking out at the darkening sky. “I was late. I couldn’t get to her. They found out, and they punished her to punish me. So I’d rather want you, like this, from across the table, and know you’re okay, than regret getting close to you for the rest of my life.”
The wind moved through the treetops outside in a low howl. I looked down at the table, because looking at him seemed to hurt too much.
“So what do we do, exactly?” My voice sounded small and frustratingly wounded.
“We text back and forth. Make it read as if we’re dating, and you’re oblivious.”
It felt so ironic and unfair. “What else?”
“I’ll take you out a few times a week. There are places I’m supposed to take you, where the coven has people watching.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
I could barely swallow. My pulse had climbed into my throat, frantic and painful, as if my body understood the rejection before the rest of me did. “I wish I didn’t want you so much. I hate this.”
Heat spread across my throat when I realized what I’d just said aloud. But I kept talking: “Is this just some effect of the cacao? This thing between us, whatever it is? Some sick thing they did?”
“No,” he said.
“How do you know?”
He held my eyes, and suddenly it felt like the room was as warm as the jeep had been yesterday.
“Because I didn’t drink any cacao. And despite everything in me telling me no, I still can’t keep my hands off you.”
My throat tightened, but I spoke anyway:
“This wasn’t my sigil. It’s the exact fucking opposite of my sigil.” It felt pathetic to be preoccupied with the last thing that really mattered. I regretted blurting it out as soon as it left my mouth.
But it broke something inside him. He touched my sleeve, then all at once, he pulled me close. For a few stolen seconds, I leaned against his chest. My body was so ready to melt against him, I almost forgot I had feet. He whispered my name. That made my breath hitch. I pressed my fingers into his shirt.
And that’s when I knew I needed to leave, because I was seconds from losing the willpower to respect his restraint. I chugged the tea, which was so bitter, I almost gagged, then straightened.
“Be careful, Marlowe,” he said.
I nodded once and walked to my car.
Chapter Thirteen
