Page 12 of One For my Enemy

She glanced at him, waiting to see if she’d made him smile again. She had, and now the snow was starting to fall more steadily, cresting regally on his not-black hair.

“Well, it was nothing important,” Lev assured her, sliding her another glance as Sasha hastily averted her attention to the snow falling on the ground, eyeing the sidewalk’s newly powdered sheen. “What were you doing?”

“Group project.” Sasha made a face. “I should have known it was going to be a disaster when Eric insisted we have it in a bar, but—” She shrugged. “Was probably going to be a disaster either way, and now I’ve punched him.” She paused. “Wonder if that’ll affect my grade.”

“Only in a positive way, I’m sure. He deserved it,” Lev said briskly, and then frowned. “Why are you in college, anyway? You’re a witch,” he reminded her, as if she’d somehow forgotten. “It’s not like you need it.”

“Well, in a surprising turn of events, getting an education and possessing magic aren’t mutually exclusive,” Sasha informed him, half-stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk and careening briefly into him, shoving him away as he attempted to prop her upright. “Can’t you do something about this?” she demanded, gesturing vaguely to her questionable equilibrium.

“I could, but obviously it seemed more fun to let you shove me all over Manhattan.”

“I don’t get out much,” Sasha admitted, pausing briefly to press a hand to her temple, hoping to somehow steady herself that way. “Not a fan of drinking,” she added at a grumble.

“Certainly not like that,” Lev agreed, holding her back for a second as a cab blitzed through the intersection. “Careful,” he warned, and this time, glancing down at where his fingers were placed delicately on the inside of her elbow, Sasha didn’t shove him away. She gently—gingerly—permitted a nod, letting him steady her.

When imminent danger had passed, Lev brought his hand down, but this time, instead of letting his thumb tap rhythmically against his thigh, he held it still, floating in the air between them. It seemed a precautionary measure; in case he might need to use it again. In case he might need to be close to her again.

Sasha coughed loudly, shaking herself back to reality.

“I’ve got it from here,” she informed Lev once they’d crossed the street, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. “Subway’s just a few streets over and I’m fine, I promise. Thanks for your, um. Help, or whatever—”

“My help‘or whatever’?” Lev echoed, scoffing, “Nice, Sasha. Real nice.”

“Look,” she sighed impatiently, “as I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned, I’mfine—”

“Right, extremely fine,” he muttered, “which is totally obvious, considering you were almost just run over by a taxi with absolutelynointention to stop—”

“—and I really think you’re overestimating the actual work you’ve put into the situation. I mean sure, it’s nice and all, I guess, assuming you’re not just trying to hit on me—”

“—I’m genuinely trying to save your life, but if that’s not immediately obvious, then I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it—”

“—and look, anyway, my sister would kill me if she saw you with me; or, I don’t know, at least have eight thousand questions, so—”

“—should really just let you fall into the street, considering how badly you seem to want to do that—”

“—just too many questions, honestly, it’s hardly worth it—”

“—don’t know why I’m still here, I guess I should really just—”

“—you should really probably—”

“—go,” they finished in unison, and Sasha made the mistake of looking up, catching Lev’s gaze as it fell on hers in the same motion, with the same sharp intake of breath, the two of them shivering synchronistically in the cold. His hair was dusted in flakes of snow, his head still uncovered (had he ever been wearing a hat? Evidently not; what a gallant idiot) and despite her memory of his constant motion, the twitching of his shoulders and the shifting of his expression, he was standing still now.

He washolding herstill, she realized, one of his hands carefully propped under her forearm from the motion of turning her towards him, and she blinked, registering the feeling of his fingers pressing into her winter coat.

“Are you cold?” she asked him, and he cleared his throat.

“Freezing,” he assured her, and she nodded gravely, reaching up to brush her charmed fingers across his lips. She waited for a moment, drawing the tip of her index finger back and forth along the line of his mouth, until finally his lips parted, his breath warm and tinged with a smoky hint of whisky.

“This,” he said, her fingers still hovering above his lips, “is what they call mixed messages, Sasha.”

She blinked, startled, and drew her hand away. “Right,” she exhaled. “Right, of course, sorry, I was just, I wasn’t—”

“Oh, hell,” Lev rumbled softly, and before Sasha could respond, he had pulled her into him, wrapping one arm around her waist to slide his free hand beneath her jaw, tilting her face up towards him. He leaned close, pausing a matter of breaths from her lips, and then he stayed there, his nose poised delicately alongside hers. She felt his swift inhalation like a breeze against her cheek, the pounding of his heart visible beneath the line of his throat.

The implication was clear; he’d come as close as he was going to. He’d come close enough to imagine her, to taste the proximity of her in the air between them, but no closer; that was up to her. She paused for a moment in the stillness, in the paralysis between motions, in the cliff-edge between what was and what could be, and for a moment she simply luxuriated there, feeling the warmth of his breath against her lips and thinking, foolishly, that she could be satisfied with the magnificence of waiting; until she felt sure, as steadily as his heart pulsing beneath her hand, that she could no longer stand the distance.

She brushed her lips against the side of his mouth, hesitant, and then pushed up on her toes, colliding with him. He steadied her for a moment before helplessly falling back, yanking her closer as he reached for the wall of the building behind him, content to let brick and stone do the work of keeping them aloft. It felt like drama of the vastest heights, his kiss the overture of all the greatest operas—the summit of every landscape’s peak, a rush of tides and fates and furies—and she melted in his arms, warmed by more than just the spell at the tips of her fingers.

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