Page 87 of Heir of Illusion

“It’s your name,” I remind him. “Or are you saying you’d prefer me to call you ‘Your Majesty?’”

He rolls his eyes. “That won’t be necessary. Although, I’m honored to know you find me majestic.”

I give him a bland look. We’re both silent for a few moments as he spins me with one arm before drawing me close again. While Baylor’s hand on my waist was a chain, Thorne’s is a brand. Hot and scalding. Leaving an indelible mark I’ll never be able to wash away.

“I needed information,” he admits.

I nod, keeping my eyes down. For some reason, his confession stings. I knew he was working an angle, but hearing it confirmed hurts more than it should.

“What possessed you to come here yourself?” I ask, praying my voice sounds even. “You could have just sent an emissary.”

“I prefer a hands-on approach.” His tone implies something else as he pulls me even closer.

The soft leather of his glove brushes against my back again, sparking a connection in my mind. I recall that night in the caves when I tried to wipe a piece of algae from his hair, and he reared back as if he’d been disgusted by me.

Don’t. Touch. Me… Ever.

He apologized later, claiming he simply doesn’t like to be touched, but it’s deeper than that. Now I know it wasn’t just Thorne I would have been touching, it was Death.

Beware the touch ofDeath…

An old memory stirs, words uttered by my former history tutor years ago. He claimed that to be close to the God of Death is to die yourself.

My body goes rigid as I play back every interaction, allowing them to take on new meaning. His gloves. The ones he’s always wearing. How he never lets me close enough to actually touch his skin. His reaction that day when I reached for him. Everything shifts as the truth sets in. A deranged laugh bubbles up in my throat as I consider his last words.

“Really? A hands-on approach?” I ask slowly, glancing meaningfully at the half inch that separates our bodies. “I was under the impression you have to keep your hands off.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps as his eyes darken with shadows.

“Or perhaps the rumors have it wrong? Is Death’s touch not as lethal as they say?” I lift my hand from his shoulder and reach for his face.

His own hand snaps out, gripping mine tightly before spinning me around and pulling my back against his chest. Other dancers glance over at us, but I can’t bring myself to care as he pulls me close, his hand splayed across my stomach. My breath hitches as something tightens in my core.

“Don’t,” he whispers against my hair.

“That’s why you never take off your gloves?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Why you panicked when I?—”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” he cuts me off. “I’ll never touch you.”

My shoulders curve inward as his words hit me like a gut punch. It’s foolish to be hurt. He should mean nothing to me. Knowing what I do, I’d have to be out of my mind to wish for his touch.

“Good,” I tell him, pretending the brightness in my tone isn’t ringing false.

Several moments pass in silence. I twist my neck to find him glaring at something across from us. I try to search for whatever has angered him, but he spins me to face him once more.

I narrow my eyes. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, glancing away.

Anger swells inside me. “I wouldn’t believe the word of a liar anyway.”

His sculpted lips curve upward as his voice fills with smoke. “Takes one to know one, Angel.”

Heat sparks in my belly at the endearment. I hate the fact that him calling me that still affects me. It shouldn’t, but I can’t deny that it does.

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