Page 157
“You are cruel.”
“Yes.” He nods.
“You are reckless.”
“Often.” A smile widens across his face.
“You are going to make me insane.”
His smile sharpens. “Perhaps I already have.”
I grab the front of his shirt and shove him back against the nearest bookshelf, just hard enough to make several books thud to the floor. His hands catch my waist, I stare at him, breathing hard.
“Who is here?” I ask. The question cuts through the heat and Darkness’s expression shifts for one moment, I feel Alcott behind his eyes. Darkness answers quietly. “We both are.”
My grip tightens in his shirt. “And does he want this?”
A pause. Long enough that my anger almost returns, then Alcott’s voice slips through, thinner, shaken, but present. “Always.”
My breath catches.
“Our clever Alcott has opinions,” he whispers into my ear.
“Do not mock him,” I scold.
“I am him.”
“No,” I say. “You are part of him.”
That smile falters again as I lean closer. “And I want all of you honest before I touch either of you.”
For once, there is no jest. No cruelty, but only the sound of our breathing and the fire chewing through wood. Then Darkness lifts one hand and touches the side of my face, with startling care.
“You are angry,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You want me.”
“Yes.”
“You may have both.” His voice so gentle and reassuring, it is my undoing. My mouth crashes into his and there is nothing soft in it at first. It is anger, relief, grief, and every unsaid thing dragged between teeth. He kisses like a fight he wants to lose and win simultaneously. I kiss him like I can punish him and keep him in the same breath.
His hands fist in my hair. Mine are clutching his shirt, while the bookshelf bites into his back. He laughs against my mouth, low and dark, and I hate how much I want to bottle that sound.
“You are still furious,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “Do not mistake this for forgiveness.”
His eyes gleam, “I would never insult you by assuming you were so simple.”
“Darkness.”
“Lazarus.” My name in his mouth is a blade drawn slowly, I really should leave. I should cool my head and return to Olive, to the careful tenderness of the wounded household we have somehow built from blood and bad decisions. Instead, I kiss him again, because I am weak and furious. Because I love him.
