Page 11 of Nocturne

His nostrils flare, and his eyes darken. I’m unable to wrap my head around what he has done, but the reaction it evokes inside me is not what I expected. I should be shocked—which I am—appalled, disgusted, and not… aroused. Something is wrong with me for the pulse down south to beat erratically right now.

I’m broken. That is it. I’m a broken human being who has no idea how to process emotions right.

“Do you know what happens when someone shoots me, Ara?”

Try as I might, I cannot stop the full-body shudder at the way he says my name. I shake my head.

That seems to agitate him as his grip on me turns slightly tighter, and he pulls me closer. We are almost close to touching.

“Use your voice,” he orders.

I begin to nod. “Okay,” I say instead.

“I kill them.”

I wince at his words.

“Even if it’s not fatal?”

My mind-mouth coordination has evaporated by this point. Devlin remains silent. He might be contemplating how to kill me, perhaps?

“Can we not get even by you shooting me in my arm as well?”

The premise sounds painful, but that is better than dying. He doesn’t seem amused by the words.

“We can get even if you do something for me,” he says instead.

I don’t like to be leveraged into a situation. But I cannot, not, accept the responsibility for my mistake. So I nod. His eyes snap down to my lips and for one crazy moment, I think he might ask me to kiss him. I shoo that thought away as soon as it enters my head. There is no way for someone like him to be even remotely attracted to someone like me. Even without glasses, I’m nothing special to look at.

He bends, bringing his face closer to mine, letting me smell the richness of a cigar. His eyes are distracting, taking away my thought process with the way they shine with a lot and nothing at the same time. The flecks of black in them draw me in, wanting to submerge myself in those depths of nothingness.

The scars seem to bring out the curiosity that I thought I killed. The urge to run my fingers over them, to feel the slightly large indents in between them, to know if they still hurt, fills me. But with extreme difficulty and reasoning that I wouldn’t want to lose my limb, I rein the urge in.

When I don’t reply, his fingers dig into my waist, reminding me to use my voice.

“Anything,” I say and regret it instantly.

I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing myself for the wording. When I open them back, it is to see a ghost of a smirk on his lips. It is barely there, but it transforms him from a human to a beast in an instant.

He shifts closer, his breath brushing against my ear. I can feel the flush creeping up my cheeks, a traitor to my composure, threatening to give me away if he so much as glances at me.

“Say my name.”

It’s not a question—he doesn’t need to ask if I know it. He must already know, judging by the way I reacted moments ago.

What he asks for isn’t anything big—it’s as simple as breathing. Yet, something inside me holds back. It’s ridiculous to give weight to any of the rumours people have spun about him, but my mind clings to one in particular. The story that says he knows anyone who speaks his name, that he emerges from the shadows to claim their souls, leaving their final scream echoing in the darkness. His name is as big of a myth as Voldemort’s if he would have been real.

He moves to look at me when I hesitate. There is a challenge in the way his split eyebrow raises slightly.

“That’s it? If I say your name, you will let us go?”

He nods—mighty hypocritical of him not to use his voice when he wants to hear mine. I don’t think it is wise to voice the thought though.

“Without any strings attached?” I ask again to confirm.

One more nod.

“Very well,” I nod to myself.

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