Page 96 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

“Necromancer,” he replies immediately. “Any necromancer—”

“What, all two of us?” Delina interjects.

“Any necromancer would’ve had the same response. I think.” He sighs again, reaching out and pulling her hand into his again, and she’s not going to deny him that comfort. “I feel like shit.”

Before she can even help herself, she flashes a scan at him. There’s still a shiver running through his body, his head aches dully, and his stomach is roiling.

He doesn’t flinch at that, just blinking through it.

“You’ll be okay,” Delina says softly. “No permanent damage or anything.”

“How are you not scared by me?” Maison bursts out at that. “You should be, I dunno, running in terror and never looking back.”

He still cradles her hand.

And there’s a flippant answer, at the tip of her tongue, but she waits and lets that float away. Lets herself think of what may be the real answer.

“I don’t understand,” he says, after she’s silent for too long.

“If we’re being honest, it’s probably because I didn't quite grasp the danger,” Delina admits, and she hates saying that. “I just thought you were going haywire or something.”

His jaw works, tight, and she runs her thumb along his knuckles. Like she used to do when he was upset about something, anything, back in their little condo in Prescott.

Then it was usually the neighbors, or a nebulous work ‘thing.’ Not a bout of spontaneous change in magic that resulted in him literally teleporting and then hurting her.

It feels just as right now as it did then, and that bubbles up an entirely different well of emotions.

“And you called me pretty,” she points out, and he groans, rubbing his face. “That was nice.”

“Delly, you were overwhelming,” he says, now flopping over on the bed. “I never want any demon to see you ever, if that’s what they’ll see.”

“You’ll have to paint it for me,” Delina says, and her heart beats a bit at seeing him on her bed.

It’s all such a bad idea.

“The entire world was dark,” he continues, still covering his eyes, as if the lack of sight would help him talk about it. “I couldn’t tell where the trees were, what I was standing on, or what temperature the air was. It was like I just…stopped existing, and the only light I could see was you.”

“Romantic,” Delina comments, and he opens his grey eyes long enough to give her a dirty look.

Right. Because all of this familiarity and all of this connection and they’re still exes.

They had made out even, still exes. He still lied to her, lied about her entire life.

“I meant literally,” he says. “Like a physical light, and everything else in the world was dim.”

She doesn’t have a quippy comment for that, so she stares up at the ceiling, instead of him.

“You know they’re gonna make you try to practice again, right?” Delina says, and he sighs again. “I’m gonna have to start keeping dead bugs on me to do that with, aren’t I?”

He tilts his head over to look at her, and she’s still sitting next to him, with him on the bed. “I won’t blame you if you never do that again,” he says. “I won’t blame you if you never look at me, if you never talk to me again. You could have died, Delly, and I would have been the reason for it.”

The sarcasm dies at the tip of her tongue, as she looks down at him. At the line of his jaw and his neck, at the rumpled undershirt.

There’s self-loathing on his face, out of place, and she’s not quite sure she’s ever seen that expression on him before.

“Okay,” she murmurs, and stands so she’s facing him.

He sits up, immediately, and the desire to rest her arms on his shoulders and cradle his face hits her like a brick. To run her fingers through his soft hair, until he closes his eyes and leans into her.

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