Page 88 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

She’s not going to move away from the touch if he’s not.

“I mean, some can, sure,” Gurlien says, expansive. “Some have such meticulous control that nobody has any idea what they’re thinking ever. But,” he taps her shoulder, “most just go through their day with only a loose idea of what expressions they’re showing and what they’re communicating with them. Most just don’t care.”

She’s learned more about humans than she has ever, just sitting here and chatting, more than centuries of research with scholars and observations.

She watches him from under her lashes, sipping her wine. There’s something beautiful about his face like this, so open, like he’s carefully showing her all his inner thoughts, revealing bits of himself until she doesn’t cringe away.

He hasn’t cringed away from her, in all of this.

It’s a heady thought, colored by all the wine. Thatdespite her horrifying existence and the rather traumatic and emotional day they’ve had, that he’s not scared of her at that moment. That sure, she may have cracked the very foundation of a house, but he’s not frightened of her. Doesn’t believe she’s a threat to him.

And right at that moment, she’d rather turn herself in than do anything to harm him.

She sets her glass of wine down at that realization, almost unsteady.

Gurlien arches an eyebrow at her. “Do you need water?”

“Probably,” she responds, her mouth dry, though her heart is pounding.

Gurlien gestures for the waiter, gets water for both of them, and she envies that smooth confidence, before he drapes his arm back on the couch.

“I don’t know how old Misia was,” he starts, voice gentle, his words rounded along the edges. “But how you deal with a hangover will hinge on that number.”

“She was twenty-eight,” Ambra replies, and she doesn’t even need to think about it. “We celebrated her birthday in January.”

They were in captivity then, everything had been uncertain and fearful, but the College was still pretending to care about them.

One assistant had baked cake.

“So almost a year ago,” Gurlien murmurs, then makes a face. “Well, do you have a different birthday? Is that something a demon tracks?” She’s already shaking her head. “I guess you can celebrate then if you want.”

Ambra’s still reeling from the strength of conviction in herself, that she’d let her own self come to harm if it’d protect Gurlien, and the temptation to run away, run far away, almost overwhelms her.

“I’ll text Fr-Maison, see if he’s ever been privy to any demon parties,” Gurlien continues, and it’s a vaguely amusing thought, even through her utter shock at herself.

“Demons don’t do parties like that,” Ambra murmurs, staring out at the patio, at the twinkling lights, at the warmth flickering from the heaters and the fireplaces.

It’s such a profoundly human place, in such a profoundly human activity, sitting next to someone and drinking wine and talking. They had been there for hours, had been sitting there together, and she hadn’t thought about time passing or about panicking throughout the evening.

He taps her shoulder again, just the barest of grazing of fingertips.

“Sense something?” he asks, sharp, but there’s no danger, other than what’s represented by his closeness, by her fondness of him. By the risks she would be willing to take, by the sudden strength of all of the emotions.

“Nothing,” she answers, swallowing, then taking a sip of the provided water, and it’s only out of sheer force of will that her hands don’t shake. “Emotions are just weird and I don’t understand them.”

He clinks the water glass with hers, and they’re so exposed, in this world with no protective runes, with nothing to keep them safe. There’s nothing to stop a random crime, a demon deciding to obliterate them, nothing.

Instead, humans just go about their days like this, never protected, never knowing what is happening around them.

Without her saying anything, Gurlien digs through the backpack, pulling out the money and counting it out.

“I’m living a big tip,” he says, almost primly, as if it’s something she’d reject. “If we can get more money, then I am not going to be skimpy on that.”

Ambra still doesn’t quite have a grasp on all of those intricacies, but she stands when he does, all of her limbs loose from the wine.

He throws his arm around her shoulders, still much warmer than she is, and she leans against him like she fits there.

“I’m a bit unsteady,” he declares, even though he’s walking fine, even though his steps are just as even as before. “And tomorrow I’ll absolutely need coffee before I can function, you won’t be able to get out of that.”

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