Page 90 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

It’s a strange word for the moment, and she mulls it over, with him stock still next to her, her hand on his cheek. It should scare her, it should terrify, that this is what the body is feeding her in such a time, but instead it just unspools inside of her.

His lips part, and she presses herself up to him, pulling his chin towards her and kissing him.

He freezes, his entire body going stiff, and for a split second she panics that this isn’t what he wants, before his hand comes up, his fingers weaving through her hair and gripping tight.

He kisses her back, like he’s starving. Like he’s had nobody to touch for far too long, bereft in the world. Like he’s drowning and the salvation is in her lips, like he could steal the very breath from her lungs to keep himself alive.

Like the very control he holds himself with snaps, and she is in the way.

A thrill shoots down Ambra’s back, wholly new, and she gasps, opening her mouth against his, and his hand twists harder in her hair. Seizing the weakness, seizing the gap inher shield, his tongue grazes her lips, like he could taste her and find wholeness in that touch.

She grabs his collar with both hands, holding on, as if that could save her, and pushes back. Winds her own way into his defenses, lets her focus flex until all that is within it is him, his lips, his tongue, and the brutal heat of his body pressed against hers. Until all she can sense is his blood thudding through his veins, his hand tight in her hair, the scarred edge where his magic used to be, and the very want of her coursing through her like nothing she’s ever, ever experienced.

A small sound escapes her, something outside her control, and he still once more, before breaking the kiss.

His pulse hammers in his throat, and his lips are wet as he stares down at her, his brown eyes wide.

Ambra’s heart freezes, something halfway between fear and a need, as he loosens his grip on her hair, gently smoothing it back down.

“I’m…” he trails off, and he’s still pressed against her, she still grasps his collar.

He blinks, fast, and despite his magnificent brain, despite all his intellect, he’s flustered. He’s confused.

Ambra drops his collar, takes a step back, and her lips sting as she does so, every fiber in her body wanting the opposite. Her mouth dry, she swallows, but no words flash into her mind to say.

Even the tips of his collarbones, barely visible beneath his shirt, are flushed red.

“That’s…different in a human body,” she says numbly, and her fingertips tremble with the hunger to reach out again to him.

He huffs out a breath, something between a gut punchand a laugh, and his hand flexes, as if his sensations echoes hers.

“Not something we should do while drunk,” he says, as if he too has been struck by lightning. “Trust me, not drunk.”

She nods, slow, her mouth dry.

He leans back, breaking eye contact and running a hand through his blond hair, thoroughly messing it up.

“Okay,” he says, visibly steadying himself, visibly getting himself back under control, back into his own sense of self. “Okay. Not what I expected.”

“Me neither,” she murmurs, then between one breath and the next, lets her grip on her powers relax, lets her awareness fill something besides just him, besides just the sensations currently warring within her.

The wards are perfectly fine, still and steady, no touches or grazes among them. Nobody stepped into her apartment, nobody attempted anything while they were away. No further tugs on the leash, no further pokes and prods at her consciousness.

She’s still safe. They’re still safe, despite the adrenaline shooting through her.

Gurlien steps away, another bit of distance between them, walking softly over to the kitchen and filling another glass of water, and with each foot further, Ambra’s heart hurts, just a little.

24

Despite everything else, despite the two other glasses of water Gurlien bullies her into drinking, Ambra wakes with his arm loose around her waist and his breathing steady behind her, and her head aches.

“Oh,” she mumbles, and his arm briefly tightens, but the rise and fall of his chest remains steady.

Her head pounds, her mouth tastes like something dead crawled inside, and her stomach turns, despite the stillness of her limbs. Light winds its way underneath her eyelids, too piercing and too

This is what the experts meant by hangover.

Forcing herself to exhale through her nose, she sends a tendril of power to the thudding in her head, to the blood vessels throbbing, and it eases, just enough that she squints her eyes open.

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