Page 51 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

“Do you know the theory?” She taunts, and his lips twitch. Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

“I just talked Maison and Delina through a few weeks of theory,” he shoots right back, “All without seeing any of it.”

Considering the fidelity the Necromancer had, at the utter destruction she unleashed when she compelled the Half Demon, he did a good job of it.

“From what, reading a few books in a warded cabin?” she says, shaking out her hands and lifting her chin. “I made it easy for you, it’s tied on your wrist. See what you can do.”

Again, the flash of insecurity, visible from across the room, before he wraps the leash around his free hand, tangling his fingers in it.

It twitches around her throat, the hint of movement. Not tightening, not hurting, just reminding her of its existence.

She swallows, as he tests the sensation of it against his palm, obviously calculating.

“You can feel that?” he murmurs, but his words carry across the hardwood floor.

“Of course,” she replies, then paces, and his hand brieflytightens on the leash. “Just like if you’re paying attention, you can feel that.”

“Intent, control, and willpower,” he mutters, and she wants to laugh at the three words. It’s a massive simplification of the theory, boiled down to a child’s understanding, but still accurate.

Ambra herself had told the body that, before the merge. Before they shared a space.

She exhales past the ghosts of the moment. The body never visited this apartment, there are no memories in this space tainted by the grief.

Instead, there’s Gurlien, testing the feel of the leash, a scholar's intellect behind his brown eyes and a traitorous eagerness in his stance, mulling over the best way to achieve what he wants, even at the disadvantage he’s at.

“Is it dangerous to do this in a city?” he asks, the leash twisting against his fingertips, sending a resulting shiver down Ambra’s back. “It was dangerous for Delina and Maison.”

“I’m gonna assume that was because he had zero experience with that side of him,” Ambra says, and Gurlien nods, thoughtful. “And the Necromancer had so little subtlety in any of her actions.”

Another twitch of a smirk before his hand closes fully on the leash and he pulls.

It’s not much, it’s not nearly enough to make her do anything, but she jerks forward, teleporting a few steps towards him, halfway between instinct and compelled to do so.

And her breath squeaks out of her throat and he drops the leash like it burns him.

“Sorry,” he blurts out, holding up his hands, as if to show he’s unarmed. “I didn’t—”

Ambra coughs once, then straightens, and he blanches.

“No, you were fine,” she says, running her fingertips under the leash. He didn’t break any skin, it wouldn’t leave a bruise. “Not bad for a first effort.”

But he’s pale, the white of his eyes visible from across the room.

“Do it again, it’s good practice,” Ambra says, resetting her stance, widening her legs. “Don’t you think it’d be nice to have a demon at your beck and call? Good weapon?”

“No,” he blurts out, drawing her up short.

She tilts her head up at him, and even across the grand wooden floor, he’s pale.

He shakes out his hand, turning away, so she stalks across the apartment.

“We’re going to be practicing that more,” she warns him, her brow furrowing. “This is the best opportunity for me to avoid them.”

“I understand that,” he says curtly, then shuts his mouth with a click, crossing his arms.

She raises an eyebrow, stepping close to him, and his jaw tightens.

He’s taller than the body—most humans are, it’s not a shock to anyone—but even still, he raises his chin.

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