Page 288 of The Wishing Game

Maybe he's fine as he is. He doesn't need to be in any magazine.

I nod to myself. Yes. He's a good God Killer. He should do what he's best at.

We stay in silence for moments on end, our bodies near but far. Our breaths are the only echo in the room, but they're strangely in unison—not two, but one.

I turn to him, allowing myself to study him in the open. Maybe it's the alcohol that's making me more daring than before, more...comfortable.

"You should smile more often," I find myself saying, stifling a yawn.

"I should?" His long lashes flutter at me.

I nod, dragging myself next to him. Using my finger, I pull on the corner of his lips.

"There. That's better."

He catches my finger, pulling me closer until my chest meets his. His gaze lands on mine, his hot breath brushing against my lips.

I draw in a sharp breath, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

He closes his eyes, leaning forward to breathe me in.

"You infuriate me to no end," he rasps.

"W-what?"

"Why do you have to be so damn beautiful?" he asks on a ragged breath.

His eyes snap open, the purple of his irises becoming a deeper shade that threatens to engulf me whole.

"I... Ze..." I trail off, at a loss for words. "Thank you?" I force a smile, doubt churning in my gut. This is going in the wrong direction, isn't it? We're too close, too... The look in his eyes is not a normal one that a friend has for afriend, is it?

His hands cup my cheeks, holding me in place. Brushing his nose against my own, he grinds his teeth, as if physically in pain.

"I have never known want before. I have neverwantedto know it. But you make me want, Luce. You make me want far too much," he whispers, his tone anguished. "Why do you have to be so tempting?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no word comes out. The beat of my heart echoes in my ears, the sound almost deafening. I stare into his eyes, willing myself to reply—tell him this isn't what I meant. That we're friends and we cannot be more—we canneverbe more. The words that would have come so easily before are now lodged in my throat, including the most important one. I'm married. I may be a widow, but I'm still married.

Tears stab at my eyes as panic overtakes me. Not at his actions, or the position we find ourselves in, but atmyreaction. I should not be reacting at all. I should look at him and notseehim. Yet the more I stare into those purple eyes that have come to mean so much to me, I find myself utterly speechless.

"I might be immune to all poisons in the universe. But it appears there is one thing I am not immune to," he murmurs softly. "You."

"Are you calling me a poison?" I clear my throat as I attempt a joke, yet my question comes out throaty, inviting...

"Oh, you are the most potent poison of all. And I have yet to taste you." He leans forward, his lips a razor's edge away from mine.

I blink rapidly, the moment stretching across an infinity as my being splits into two—the one before him, and the one after. Indecision cuts at me.

His breath is intoxicating, more so than any alcohol. It washes over me, imbuing me with an exhilarating but ineffable emotion. I lick my lips, still undecided about the course of my actions, for I know that if I take this step, nothing will ever be the same. I will damn myself in a way I would have never fathomed. And yet, I'm tempted.

God forgive me, but I'm tempted.

Even as my husband's visage flashes before my eyes, I waver.

His lips continue their descent toward me, and at the last moment, I half turn. His lips skim the corner of my mouth, brushing against my cheek. The breath leaves my lungs. My hands grip his arms, my nails digging into his flesh. A small whimper escapes me, of rebuttal or encouragement, I don't know.

He takes no notice of the turmoil inside of me. His lips trace a soft line down my neck.

A shiver goes down my back.

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