Page 115 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

His lips sear against hers, as if he could consume her through just the act of passion. Like it’s every bit of his willpower to not escalate, to not overpower her. His hand on her chin is hard, firm, keeping her in place, so even if she wanted to pull away, she couldn’t.

She doesn’t want to.

She arches her back, pressing against him, throwing her arms around his neck, tangling a hand in his soft brown hair. Every line of him, every touch, burns, blazing through her and any anger and frustration and leaving just…this.

He makes a note in the back of his throat, a soft, needy noise, and she opens her mouth to his, and he takes it. Greedily, like they’ve never kissed before and he will never get another chance again.

It sings through her blood, lighting a fire in her stomach, and she breaks the kiss just long enough to straddle his thighs, then grips him by the hair and pulls him back in.

He relents, happily, pulling her closer, a hand at the small of her back, holding her there, relentless, and she bites his bottom lip, and he groans, just like he always does.

It’s not enough. It was everything, and then, suddenly, it’s not enough, and she scrabbles to pull up her shirt, bare her skin so more of him can touch her, so his hands can circle her skin and warm her touch and—

Loud, a spark crackles from her hand.

They both jump, their lips breaking apart, and his eyes glow red, wide.

“Did you mean to do that?” he whispers, and his lips are wet.

“I still don’t know what that is,” she whispers back, gentling her hand in his hair, resting her forehead against his.

He grins at her, the sort of smile that takes away all of her fears and her stress, blowing them to the wind, and she smiles back, all sorts of foolish. “I don’t either.”

“Weird,” she whispers, pressing a small kiss to his lips again, in between words. “Here I thought you might know everything.”

“I wish,” he responds, holding her tight against him, and it’s so breathlessly easy, it’s so breathlessly simple, sitting here straddled on his lap. Like she never left, like nothing ever happened between them. Like it’s home.

She kisses him again, and his stubble scratches against her, his hands gripping her hips in place, his thumb brilliant against her skin, until—

The alarm blares through the cabin, and they jolt apart.

The satellite phone.

His eyes still glow red, and his cheeks are flushed, but his face sobers as they dimly hear Chloe answer it again, and the same woman’s voice asking for Frederick once more.

And here she is, straddling him with her shirt off.

“Oh,” she whispers, pulling back, reaching for her shirt, and he hands it to her where it fell next to his bed.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, briefly squeezing his eyes shut, breathing in deep, getting himself under control. “They’re not going to stop.”

She shrugs her shirt back on, awkwardly climbing off his lap, and he rubs his face.

“Let’s go back out there and plan,” she says, hoping her voice is steady, “and we will continue this later.”

He blinks up at her, like it’s the last time he’ll see her face. “I’ll hold you to that, I will,” he warns, and it tugs a smile from her, almost against her wishes, as he flattens down his hair from her mussing and adjusts his jeans.

It’s just as familiar of motion as he always did, before he climbs to his feet, offering her a hand up.

This time, she takes it.

33

They have his mother call three more times that morning, but she never calls him by the name Maison, and they never deviate from Chloe’s British accent.

It’s awful and Maison’s face twists each time hearing her voice, and Gurlien gets more and more frantic. He’s packed three bags, all neatly placed by the plastic front door, with a tote bag of books leaning against them.

Chloe’s just packed her backpack.

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