Page 80 of The Kiss of Deception

Change isn’t inherently loss, and control doesn’t mean contentment.

“And it reminds me that it may take some time, but I will get everything I want. However long it takes.” Then he adds, not as an afterthought, but as the final conclusion, “Maybe I already have it.” My nails puncture skin and sketch little half-moons that look perfectly at home beside his ink.

“Your eyes are… exquisite,” he whispers.

They look up, lock onto his. Gray like steel bars of a jail cell and prison walls, exceptionally designed to lock me inside forever.

“They’re blue,” is all I manage, my belly quivering violently.

He’s appalled. “They’re not blue.”

Miles finally reaches for me, shoving his fingers inside my ponytail. With a rough tug, my head tilts to an angle that stretches my neck so that he can bore into the eyes he describes.

“They’re so many things. Right now, you’re right—they are blue. They’re blue like the sky that mirrors in this water. But in a minute, when we get out, and the sun bends lower in the horizon, there’ll be green in there, too. It’ll grow until they blend, blue and green, and become something else. Something yours. And on rainy days, there’s a tiny specter of gray in the mix.”

There’s reverence in the way he spews poetry about my blue irises. I’d tell him exactly how cheesy it is, but something else brews in me. The realization we’re blinded to ourselves in a way others aren’t. When we look in the mirror, we see little nothings in the same place others find little reasons to love us, to adore us, to admire us.

A shiver wracks my whole body, sharp goosebumps coating me inside and out.

“Let’s get out of this infested pond. You’re getting cold.”

Without hesitation, he leads us to the riverbank, only letting go of my hand when he’s sure my feet are steady on firm land. He offers me privacy, walking away towards our blankets—leaving behind his t-shirt for me. I gladly wear it an inch or two below my barbed-wire garter.

The sun has lowered as he predicted, the shade no longer under the tree. A corded forearm drapes across his face as a shield he wields against the beams, wet boxer briefs little more than a second skin under the sun.

“So, this is where you disappear to every time you come back with a wild mane of hair and bright red cheeks? he asks.

I drop next to him like a melted pool of a woman under the sight, under the sun, grateful for the distraction of his question.

“I’m not the biggest fan of exercise. Gyms bore me to death and definitely make me feel like death the day after, too. I come here when I want to do some exercise. I run along the river. Well, it’s more of a quick walk, but whatever.” I wrinkle my nose, embarrassed at the admission of my lack of athletic skills to a professional athlete. “Why? Did you think I had a secret portal to hell to collude with the devil against you?”

A smirk pulls at his lips. “The possibility you might be living a double life as Satan’s right hand has crossed my mind, I won’t lie.”

“Imbecile.” I smack his bare torso. Miles grins like the word is an endearment, not an insult. “It’s not a double life if a girl can multitask.”

“Zoe?” He removes the arm from his face, folding his hands in his lap. “I love that you have this piece of heaven for you, but please don’t come here on your own.”

I hear the words he doesn’t say.

Not until Gun girl is caught. Not until you’re safe.

“If you’re inviting yourself, with proper incentive, I might consider sharing.”

I wait for the joke I know won’t come. Since the incident, he’s put distance between us for reasons I can’t fathom—and despise. Because I miss the things I once hated—his eyes that scorched me, his words that boiled my blood and made me burn.

As expected, he redirects instead. “How did you find this place?”

“Looks straight out of one of your fairy tales, right?” I tease him about his reading preferences. He likes fantasy, and I like to see him blush.

For a long moment, Miles watches me silently, but he doesn’t press further. The last thing I want to speak about is my father and the long lost times when he was a dad.

So, I ask about his, instead. “You never speak about your father.” For all the times he’s gushed about his mother, he hasn’t once mentioned his dad.

He regards me again—not that he ever stopped—as weeping leaves rustle above us until he settles on a response.

“My father is a football coach—American football.” My eyebrows approach my hairline. “I know—ironic. But I always liked the round ball better, I guess. No matter how many times he tried to steer me in his direction.”

Fully recovered from the shock, I nod effusively. “That’s probably a good thing. Look at you.” I wave in the direction of his body, lingering longer than I meant on the coarse trail of dark hair that fades beneath his boxers. “You’d be demolished on the field. Like, literally crushed. Steamrolled. Obliterated.”

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