Page 107
“Must you be perceptive now?”
“I thought you enjoyed my mind.”
“I enjoy parts of your mind.”
“How selective.” His eyes narrow. “Your mouth, unfortunately, is also part of the experience.”
I smile. “And yet you keep allowing it near you.”
A beat.
Then he says, very softly, “Oh, yes.”
The word steals every clever thing from me. Alcott looks almost annoyed by that. As if he has committed an emotional indiscretion and resents being caught. I lift one hand slowly, giving him time to stop me. He does not.
My fingers brush the side of his face. No Darkness pushing forward with sharp teeth and sharper laughter, only Alcott. He leans into my palm, enough to ruin me.
“There is my darling,” I whisper.
His eyes close. “I am always here.”
“No.” My thumb moves gently along his cheekbone. “Sometimes you are behind a locked door. Sometimes he is at the window. Sometimes both of you are arguing over who gets to set the curtains on fire.”
Alcott lets out a soft laugh. Then he opens his eyes. “And tonight?”
“Tonight you are here.”
The fire pops. Neither of us moves. His hand lifts to my wrist, fingers circling lightly, not to pull me away but to keep me there.
“I worry,” he says.
“You? Never.”
His mouth tilts. “I worry there is too much of me.”
“There is.”
He looks at me.
I smile. “I adore abundance.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
His fingers tighten. “Darkness is part of me.”
I nod my head.
“He loves you,” he says.
“I know.”
“I love you.” My heart stops being a useful organ. Alcott looks away almost immediately, as if the words have embarrassed him by existing.
I catch his chin gently and bring him back to me. “Say it again.”
His brow arches, defensive instinct returning. “Greedy.”
