Page 80 of By the Fae

I followed him, but the sensible grown up in my head had to turn the heat off the hob first.

I found him pacing the living room. The television screen switched on, rapidly flicking through images of his game. My brain barely recognised them, struggled to keep up with them. I saw a lake, a cave, Rusty, Goldie’s character, a sunrise, a frigate, a rocky pathway, a clifftop, a copse of trees, a sheep, me, roof tiles, a fish. Every time it registered a new image, it would skip the next four or five, as if constantly playing catch up.

So, this is what it looked like when he built a game using his glamour. It was impressive. And mind boggling.

“What,” Goldie said, unnaturally loud, “if they can share their magic? Their abilities, I mean.” Tiny little droplets of blood fell to the rug. “What if you have to play as both characters? One at a time? Or two player mode? And the further you get into the game, the more sharing abilities you unlock?”

On the screen, the picture flashed dizzyingly fast between digital Goldie and digital me. Until we became one homogeneous blur of gold and purple hair, muscles and dungarees, feminine and masculine.

“What if to complete the goals, find the treasure, or whatever, they need to borrow, use, wield each other’s abilities? For the human to survive, they’ll need to learn the fae’s magic. And for the fae to survive . . .”

Goldie stopped pacing and rubbed a hand down his face. “Shit, you were right,” he said, in barely a whisper. “The fae will need to learn love.” He let his hand drop to his side, his other still slowly leaking at his feet. His gaze shot to the ceiling, where it stayed for a good few minutes. He rubbed his lips together and shook his head but did not speak.

“Goldie,” I said, with trepidation.

It was risky, the suggestion I was about to make. Given what he had said to me in the beginning. Given how reluctant he had been to make the game about love. How the two main characters were now irrevocably us. How in six days’ time we would have to put a stop to this thing and part ways.

He dragged his eyes to mine.

Perfect. I realised, in that moment, they were perfect eyes. Warm, comforting, desirable, familiar.

Mine.

Not mine, though.

Behind him, the screen stopped flashing.

I continued with my idea. My voice quiet. My heartbeat thunderous. “What if theyaretrying to find treasure? But what if, all along, they are trying to find . . . each other?”

I had less than a second to process the emotion in those perfect eyes — sorrow, regret, want, I wasn’t sure — before he hooked his good hand around my neck, and pressed his forehead to my temple.

“The treasure is love,” Goldie whispered. “The fucking treasure is love. Fuck you Holly Briar, you fucking genius.”

And he kissed me, in a thousand ways I’d never been kissed before.

Chapter 27.

Goldie

The rest of our week together passed in a blur of sore lips, great food, and sunrises. We worked on the game; we snogged. We hung out with my flatmates; we snogged. We cooked, Holly strictly on supervisory roles only; we snogged. We gave each other lazy hand jobs on the loungers in the roof garden, watching the sun both rise and set.

Five weeks ago, I detested her. Couldn’t stand to even look at her. Now, being with her felt normal. Like hanging out with Dima, or Taur. Only she tripped up the rhythm of my heartbeat, and I got to see her naked, and we . . . cuddled.

I had started to forget what the rest of the designers at work looked like. Except for Seth, of course. And how could I forget Holly’s impending date with the odious prick?

It was a good thing. The end of this deal was a good thing. We needed distance. I needed to extract myself from her. Unpick the threads of us that had become woven together.

She still hadn’t said she was ready for sex, so we continued to do everything but. I had to repeat to myself that not having sex was also a smart move.

I would say no. If she told me she was ready now. I had to say no.

“You’d be a fool to fuck her,” I said aloud to the bathroom mirror every time I went in for a piss. “It’s a stupid fucking idea. Don’t do it.”

Because I knew, with unwavering certainty, that not having sex with her was the only thing keeping me somewhat balanced atop that knife edge.

And if we fucked, I would slip.

My last remaining life.

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