Page 34 of Flirting with Darkness

“Whatever you need,” he said. “My blood. My books. My knowledge. Anything. It is yours.”

12

Ihad, apparently, piqued Vale’s interest, because from that moment forward, he wanted to study with me all the time. We dug through his libraries and studies together, and he helped me find books that might be relevant to my work, then translated them for me as I scribbled frantic notes in my notebooks. Time blurred together, every minute morphing to hours until my head started to bob over my books and Vale would force me to rest.

“Is this how you live?” he asked, appalled, to which I blinked blearily at him.

“I have work to do,” I answered, because this was obvious, and he snorted and scoffed and dragged me off to bed and then sat there to make sure I stayed—because I’d been foolish the first time and let him catch me sneaking out.

I couldn’t help it. There was so much knowledge in Vale’s house—so much to learn. I wanted all of it. I wanted lifetimes, eternities, to absorb everything that he knew—to experience the world as he had.

Two more days passed, then three. My health improved. I toyed with the thought of leaving on the third day, but Vale said, very seriously, “You still are unwell. You’re in no state to travel.”

And later, I would lie in bed and swallow shame, because I could have argued with him—should haveargued with him.

But I didn’t want to.

Because maybe some part of me found a strange kinship with him in those exhausted, sleep-deprived days. I’d watch him read his Obitraen books to me, watch something flicker to life over his face, a fervent curiosity that mirrored what I so often felt and always dampened.

I had thought nothing could possibly be more beautiful than Vale’s blood, but I was wrong.

And when the days passed, and my exhaustion and my enthusiasm led me to loosen my typically-closely-held control over my socially unacceptable attitudes, my raw enthusiasm leaking through as I talked excitedly to Vale about some theory or another, I turned to see him staring at me, brows drawn. His expression made me freeze, my face flushing—because I’d let down a wall I shouldn’t have and wasn’t sure what I might have revealed beyond it.

“I—” I started.

But he just said, calmly, “You are a very beautiful woman.”

It wasn’t an invitation, like the first night he had asked me if I wanted to spend the night with him. He wasn’t flirting with me. No, it was an observation, clear and simple as those in the books spread before us, and Vale simply let it lie there and then turned back to his book.

13

Ineeded to go home.

I knew it the moment I opened my eyes that day. The thought came with a sharp stab of guilt, like a haze had been cleared and I realized all at once what I had been doing.

I had been with Vale for a week. A week, in a world where time was so precious and cruel.

I needed to go home.

I told Vale this and didn’t know what to make of his slow nod and quiet demeanor. He insisted on sending me home on a magnificent black horse—a horse that was probably worth more than all of my belongings put together. “You aren’t well enough to walk all that way,” he said, when I tried to protest.

He helped me mount it, which I wasn’t expecting, his hands firm and big around my waist. His grip sent a trill up my spine that struck me in places I wasn’t expecting. When I was seated and he stood beside the horse, his hand still casually resting on my thigh, that touch was the only thing I could think about.

“Thank you for the hospitality, Vale.”

He shrugged a little, as if he was trying hard to make it seem like a great inconvenience.

Still, he didn’t move, and I wasn’t sure why. That hand still rested there, right on my thigh.

Was he waiting for me to say something? Had I missed a cue that I should know? I did that often. I looked down at that hand.

“What—”

“May I write to you?” he asked.

My mouth closed. I blinked at him.

“May I write?” He sounded vaguely irritated, and I wasn’t sure why.

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