Page 17 of Where Exorcists Cannot Lie

To finish, he dried me with a large linen towel and wrapped me in it.

“You look like a sausage in a flatbread,” he said and pressed the tip of my nose, taking advantage of the fact my hands remained trapped by the fabric.

I huffed a disgruntled protest, but he laughed and scooped me up, bridal-carry style.

In the hall, I stiffened, the reality of what had just happened dawning on me. Fucking was one thing. And gods, I regretted nothing. But sleeping together? That led into dangerous territory–it invited the kind of intimacy that could wreck my head. I couldn’t allow myself to start making it about emotions. I needed to cool down. Unless I wanted to take the quickest route to Gettinghurtton.

Inuel stopped and gazed down at me. “You want me to take you to your bedroom?” he asked in a low, neutral voice.

When the hell had he become so perceptive? So in tune with my slightest reaction that he detected my hesitation?

And no, I didn’t want that, exactly but there we were. “Yes,” I said.

The magical wards retaliated at once. I would scale the pain I received for this one-word lie a mere three out of ten. I thought I endured it without showing any discomfort, but it didn’t escape Inuel’s newly acquired powers of observation.

“Liar, liar, grey robes on fire,” he sing-songed, the shadow of a strange smile on his face. “All right, Taz. I understand. Here we go, then.”

Once inside my room, he bent over and deposited me on the mattress.

I hoped for another kiss, but having tucked me in, he squeezed my hand. “Sleep well,” he said.

Tried as I might, I couldn’t, though.

For an hour or so, I turned and twisted, unable to find a comfortable spot. I felt cold and alone. Restless. Upset, as if something mine by right had been snatched from me. Or rather, as though I’d given it away in a misjudged tantrum. The memory of Inuel’s hands on me, the sounds he made, how frenzied he acted—everything I hadn’t had time to process—it all rushed back to me.

That man would be my downfall.

“I’m not in love with Inuel Morhh,” I whispered into the dimness.

Fuck me, that huuurt. The backlash almost made me pass out, more severe than I expected. Engulfed by nausea, I struggled to breathe. This must have been what medical scrolls described as pain at the organ failure level. A definite ten this time. Once the black dots and lightning streaks cleared from my vision, I wiped the sweat off my brow.

That little test confirmed what I knew deep in my heart but didn’t want to acknowledge. The notion of protecting myself against emotions came like mustard after dinner; way too late. Not only was I heading for Gettinghurtton—I already owned a fucking house in the centre of the town and ran for mayor.

In less than a fortnight, Inuel and I would part ways. Suffering, however I looked at it, would be in my future regardless of what I did that night. So what was the point in depriving myself of all the good things I could wring out of the present?

The logic that had made sense in the hallway faded away like last night’s dream.

I sprang out of bed, swathed myself in my quilt and grabbed my pillow.

In contrast to other nights, the door to Inuel’s bedroom stood ajar, extending an invitation. The interior lay in darkness, but I knew he wouldn’t be asleep.

I cleared my throat a couple of times before padding inside.

“So, can I sleep in here or what?” I hoped the attitude in my tone would mask the fear he’d refuse me.

Inuel didn’t say anything. After a short pause, he lifted the folds of his quilt.

I dropped my covers to the floor, placed my pillow by the headboard, and slipped into his bed.

He dragged me onto his chest and clasped his arms around me.

I shuddered from pleasure at the contact with his warm, bare skin and wiggled about in search for the most comfortable spot.

“Settle down, little worm.” Inuel gave me a corrective squeeze.

“Careful with my delicate bone structure, Inuel,” I teased. “Or else you’ll give me bruises.”

“I’ll give you something, all right,” he murmured. “For example, how about—”

---