Page 11 of The Mountains Edge

She takes the tool, mimicking my movements. Her technique is good, but her angle's off.

Before I can think better of it, I step behind her. "Like this."

My hands cover hers, adjusting her grip. She feels small against me, fitting perfectly under my chin. Her vanilla scent fills my head as I guide her movements.

"Smooth strokes," I murmur. "Feel the grain."

She shivers. "The wood or you?"

"Daisy." I growl.

I should step back, but I love the feel of her against me. I help her finish the section, and her breath catches when my thumbs brush her wrists.

"Tell me about these carvings," she asks. "The stories in them."

My hands still on hers. "My grandfather carved what he saw in his dreams. Said the mountains spoke to him."

"And you?"

"I carve what haunts me."

She leans back against my chest. "The war?" My hands itch to slide under the shirt, to run my nose up the column of her throat.

"Sometimes." I close my eyes, breathing her in. "Sometimes older ghosts."

"Show me?"

I guide her fingers over the pattern. "This wolf pack running through winter storms. I made it after my first tour, when sleep was... difficult."

"Beautiful," she whispers.

"Dangerous."

"Maybe that's what makes it beautiful."

Her head turns, bringing her mouth inches from mine. The air thickens between us.

"Marcus?"

"Hmm?"

"If you don't kiss me again soon, I might scream."

My laugh is rusty. "No one will hear you.”

Her hand comes up, cupping my scarred cheek. "You're allowed to want things, you know."

"Not this. Not you."

"Why not?"

Because you're light and I'm darkness. Because you'll run when you see who I really am. Because I can't bear to watch you flinch.

"Because," I say instead, "we have work to do."

She sighs but lets me step back. "Fine. Show me the next step."

We work in charged silence, restoring inch by inch. I demonstrate techniques, she follows. Sometimes our hands brush. Sometimes she stands too close. Always, that vanilla scent teases me.

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