Page 101 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

“She tore down the demon protections on the compound,” Gurlien says, and his face is a bit pale. “To fix the ley lines going through, so you won’t be safe.”

Maison straightens, squaring his shoulders, and stares Gurlien down.

“Or, you could take your overpowered ex-boyfriend there and he’ll protect you from eighty percent of everything that could happen and probably scare the shit out of Alette and Axel and they might sic their necromancer on you,” Gurlien says sarcastically. “That’ll be a great show of force, and that compound was left to Alette so she could legally throw you out.”

“Gurlien, stop,” Chloe says, elbowing him and rolling her eyes. “Don’t be a dick.”

Gurlien gestures to Maison, like he started it.

Even though Delina’s shoes stick to the floor, she shifts away, downing the martini. “Here I thought we were done with the big dramatic reveals.”

She knows it’s not smart to be this reckless with alcohol, when it’s been this long since their heyday of undergrad, but she lets Maison put another martini in front of her, lets the conversation relax a bit.

Lets herself lean against Maison a bit more, until his arm is around her waist and she’s all but resting her head against his shoulder, warm. Lets herself laugh as Gurlien and Chloe snipe at each other, as Maison and Gurlien trade stories like actual friends. Lets her mind wander away from the drama, away from the fear earlier in the day, until everything is just a bit softer and kinder.

Until everything almost feels normal once more.

30

At one point, after Gurlien and Chloe devolve into some lengthy conversation about some theory or another, Delina lets her head tilt up to Maison.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

He’s what she would call ‘loosely drunk.’ It’s the state right after tipsy for Maison, where his cheeks redden and any tension in his shoulders relaxes.

She gets a brief glimpse of his dimple before he nods down at her, hesitates, then sighs.

“I’ll be okay,” he replies, his voice as warm as the arm around her waist.

“Good,” Delina declares, and he smiles again, and it’s so close to the comfort they would share before all of this. Before the letter.

But it’s after a day where he kissed her, where she saw him in his full demon power, and a day where she had pulled death from a creature and used it.

“Are you asking me because you want to know or because you’re used to asking?” Maison asks, turning and facing her, his other hand going to her waist so she’s in some embrace.

That’s right, this stage of drunk for Maison is also where he asks the too-honest questions. Where he dives into deep conversation he wouldn’t otherwise venture into.

That didn’t change, just because she now knows more about him.

“Well,” Delina drawls, because it’s a fair question. “Probably both.”

He weighs her answer, his arms still around her.

“And you’re still acting upset, and I don’t want you to be,” Delina continues, and there’s the self-preservation part of her that wants to keep it all secret, keep all the soft parts of her out of the light.

But the lights in the dive bar are dim and multicolored, washing them in colors too weak to be neon.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Chloe check in on them, then obviously direct Gurlien into conversation with her, facing away from the table.

So she hesitates, licks her lips, and the tips of her ears burn out of some strange amalgamation of embarrassment and nerves.

“Maybe I care, still,” she says, after too long standing too close, every inch of her skin hyper aware of the points of contact between them. Of the weight of his arms around her, of the barest hint of where her chest leans against him. “Despite all the…complications.”

Maison’s face softens, his eyes flickering down to her lips, and her gut tightens.

Maybe it’s the warmth from all the alcohol, maybe it’s the kiss from earlier, maybe it’s all the magic she’s been doing, maybe it’s that bullshit demon bond, but whatever they have between them abruptly floods through Delina, her heart in her throat.

She still wants him. Wants this. Wants the hugs and the soft embraces and the casual contact. Wants the drunken questions and wants the painting and the arm around her waist when she’s just standing there. Wants the power, the panic, and the overprotective paranoia. Wants to see him look at her like he did before, and like how he did on the forest floor when she was the only thing that could control him.

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