Page 89 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

She wouldn’t dream of it.

Still nestled up against her, he guides her to the spot in the alleyway they teleported in from, so close to the bar that she can still hear the clink of glassware and the far-off murmur of polite conversation.

“This was great,” Gurlien says, almost too loud this close to her. “I haven’t had that good of wine in about a year.”

“We can come back,” Ambra promises, the words falling from her mouth, and Gurlien’s eyes go down to her lips before flickering back up. “We should come back. After everything, bring all your friends, bring everyone who helped.”

He smiles, actually smiles, and everything about him is softer. Like the wine took away all his prickliness and all his protective shields and rendered him easier to get close to. Easier to touch.

And his arm is already around her shoulders, warm.

She turns towards him, so her fingertips graze the edge of his shirt. “Where do you want to go?” she asks, something halfway between boldness and shyness welling up in her. “We can go anywhere in the world—not Europe—but anywhere else.”

“How about back to the apartment with the bed,” hesays, almost teasing. “With all the protections and the runes so you stop being so twitchy.”

It’s smart, so she curls her hand on the collar of his shirt, where the buttons connect the fine fabric, and she’s not sure she’s ever chosen to be so close to a human before of her own free will. Sure, there’s grabbing them in combat, there’s the times when the Five would get close to test something, test reactions, test the nerve endings in the body to make sure everything was connected, or just to inflict pain to see her reactions, but not like this.

It’s even different than waking up curled next to Gurlien, when they got into that position when unconscious. It’s different than when he hugged her and she cried on him.

It’s her stepping in close. Her controlling the body, her controlling the hands, her controlling the face, tilting towards him.

His eyes widen, ever so slightly, and this close she can see the small striations of color in his brown eyes, see the small lighter streaks and the hint of honey.

“How drunk are you?” he murmurs, his other hand settling on her waist, warm and secure. Nobody’s ever really held her there, not even Johnsin in his most cruel and most creative.

“Yes,” she replies honestly, and his eyes crinkle up. “My shoulders don’t hurt, everything is warm, and I…had fun tonight.”

It’s an odd statement to say, and the analytical light in his eyes briefly flares.

“When was the last time you had fun?” There’s an undercurrent in his words, something wholly welcome but she can’t quite parse out.

“Well, breaking out of the base was somewhat fun,” sheanswers, and again gets a smile. “But like this…not in ten months.”

“Good,” Gurlien declares, and she wrinkles her nose at him. “You’re out of their grasp, you should be having fun. All this…all this violence and all this planning, it should be so you can live, not just get free.”

Still, his hand on her lower back presses strong.

“Maybe,” she says fancifully, teasing the thought from herself, letting herself lean against him, and there’s another sort of drunkenness in that as well. A tightening of her gut, a warmth lower.

His eyes flicker down to her lips again, and she would swear she could feel the sensation of his gaze, the heaviness of that small motion.

“We should really go back to the apartment,” he says, his voice low, and her breath catches, but not from pain or fear. “I think you’re drunker than you realize.”

“You’re probably correct,” she whispers back, curling her hand around his collar once more, and feels the heat of his skin beneath the fabric, the concrete under her feet, the far-off clink of glasses, the street lights reflecting in Gurlien’s glasses.

Before she inhales, between one moment and the next teleporting back into her circle of runes, next to the grand bed and the nightstand they dragged over and the thin paper maps held down on the floor from books.

And he doesn’t let her go, his fingers splaying wide on the small of her back.

Instead, he raises his eyebrow at her again, like he’s waiting to see what her action will be. Like he’s skeptical of what she will do next, like he needs some guidance, some permission, before making whatever move he will make next.

“Does wine always make you this warm?” Ambra asks, letting her fingertips graze his cheeks, which are still deep red, even under the brighter lights of the apartment.

“Often,” he murmurs back, blinking rapidly, like he’s at war with himself. “Not in…not in ages. Not when I’m by myself.”

It’s a fascinating little idea, that the looseness and the comfort would be different alone than with another person. That the most integral part of this, the desire and the warmth for the one in front of her, may be absent from this entire affair.

Desire.

---