Page 105 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

A twitch of a smile on his lips, before he leans in, pressing them against hers, and she stills.

It’s wholly different. More of an affection, of comfort and contentment, instead of a mad rush of consumption.

The clerkat the small store blinks rapidly at her, but doesn’t say anything, besides being obviously puzzled by the leash. He’s gone completely grey haired, frizzy and wrinkled, but he still peers at Ambra before dismissing her with a shrug.

“When we’re done,” Gurlien starts, on the stroll back, as Ambra glances over her shoulder at every small noise, “when this place is clear, we should come back and visit a few proper French wine bars.”

His face is carefully neutral, a blond brow raised as he scans the small neighborhood. The trees are mostly sticks with a few browned leaves, and it must’ve rained at some point in the night, for the sunset bathes the cobblestones in a reflective gleam.

And he’s beautiful in it, his wool coat shrugged on, the circles under his eyes, carrying a paper bag with bread and cheeses and soda. Beautiful in the way Ambra rarely describes anything, handsome and, for a human, unreal.

“After the hangover I didn’t think you’d want to do that,” Ambra says as carefully as she can.

With the hangover and his mortification at sleeping next to her, she can’t imagine him wanting to. He had bought a pocket knife, too, with a multitool attachment, one that would open wines if they needed.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to today, but give me enough time to recover and I will.” She gets a sidelong smile. “I don’t think I’ll do seven glasses at once again. I don’t like forgetting things.”

Ambra doesn’t have anything to say about that, ducking her head from the flutters in her stomach.

They both fallasleep after a quick meal, and she wakes up as the sun sets, his arm around her middle and his face buried in the crook of her shoulder.

And it’s a day closer to facing Nalissa.

Her phone is full of texts of research sent to her from the Half Demon, Mel, and Chloe. Some psychology links from Mel, which she files away. Something called Instagram posts sent by Maison from past concerts thrown by Nalissa in the catacombs, showing person after person dressed in fanciful black and stylized leather.

From Chloe, a picture of Gurlien, obviously months old, of him sitting on a couch with a scrawny cat curled up on his lap.

The same cat that Gurlien had shown her, with a glossy coat and well filled out.

Gurlien in the picture looks slightly annoyed, and there are dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks sunk in. His hair is shorter, and even how he’s sitting he’s favoring one side of his chest.

AMBRA (7:02 PM): Was he healthy for this?

CHLOE (7:03 PM): He was getting there.

It’s good to know.

AMBRA (7:04 PM): He smiles when you send him pictures of the cat.

On the other bedside table, Gurlien’s phone buzzes.

CHLOE (7:08 PM): Keep him safe tomorrow, I don’t like the thought of him going into the catacombs.

AMBRA (7:09 PM): If I safely could leave him out, I would. The control on the leash is only 45 meters right now.

CHLOE (7:10 PM): That is a brutally short distance.

CHLOE (7:11 PM): I’m surprised he hasn’t dragged you to do more scientific testing of it. It’s got to be bugging him to not have more information on how it works.

There hasn’t been time, not really, and she knows the hungry look in his eyes each time she does something unexplainable, the poking and prodding for knowledge.

Gurlien’s phone buzzes again, and he flops over with something of a sleepy grumble.

And she’s going to put him in danger.

Careful, Ambra slides out from underneath the blankets, and is immediately colder for it.

All her instincts, all the warped thoughts inside her, tell her to crawl back in. The demon part of her screams to curl up against him, never let anyone else hurt him, do anything and everything to protect him, possess him. The human part, that wants the warm comfort, wants the press of his skin against hers. Wants the casual touch, the heaviness of sleeping limbs, the sensation of being wrapped up in safety.

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