Page 13 of Mostly Shattered

“You’re tense,” he says like he’s telling a secret. “I wonder why that is.”

“Maybe because you’re standing too close,” Ianswer defensively. It takes everything in me to resist his pull.

“Maybe.” Cold fingers wrap around my wrist and lift my limp arm. I feel him rub his fist against my palm in a strange caress. The action feels vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. His fingers slide against me as if he’s going to lead me in a waltz.

I want to pull away but can’t.

He draws my arm to the side before gliding it between us. He holds it up and turns me so the dim light reveals a cut on my forearm. A small trail of blood mars my skin as if the drop had already dried. I realize that is the blood he was referring to.

I don’t remember cutting myself. I never even felt it.

His eyes move from mine, and I feel a rush of air enter my lungs as if he’s released a hold over my chest. It pants out of me, loud in the library’s stillness.

My heart hammers in fear. Danger radiates from him. This moment feels intimate. I want to be repulsed, but I’m not.

Cool lips brush the wound. A gentle kiss before the hard bite? It feels like a warning, and I’m helpless to stop what’s coming. I shiver at the touch, and the sensation floods my entire body with awareness.

I feel myself drawn to the death in him. He couldtake the decision out of my hands. I can let go… just… let go.

I think of Conrad’s fate.

I think of Paul and Diana.

My pain doesn’t matter.

“Stop,” I whisper.

To my surprise, he releases me. I rub the spot he licked against my waist, trying to erase the feel of his mouth. The soft brush of the dress material does the exact opposite. It makes the sensation worse.

His expression is unreadable, and he gives nothing away. I hate that about him.

This is me brewing for an argument. I’m in a rotten mood, so maybe that’s why I can’t shut up, even though it would be prudent.

“This is a bad habit of yours. That’s the last time, Costin. I’m not on a tasting menu.”

He has the audacity to chuckle at the statement like I’m some cute little kid throwing a tantrum. “Are you sure? You always seem to bleed around me. It feels like an invitation. I think there is a part of you that enjoys feeding me.”

Is he serious?

Is he… flirting?

“Not on purpose.” I grind my heel into the carpet. I wonder if my shoe could double as a stake. Maybe then he’d respect me.

He places his hand over his heart like he can read my mind.

“When I was a kid injured on the driveway? You think that was an invitation?” I demand.

“You were such a sweet, giving child.” His look seems to add,what happened?

“Right. Giving,” I drawl sarcastically. “As a twelve-year-old, I thought, ‘Hey, I wonder if my parent’s guests are hungry,’ and so I jumped off a balcony and broke my arm hoping you’d like your snack. I guess you did because you were ready to eat me until my grandfather stopped you.”

I want to turn from him, but I’m too wary to let him out of my eyeline, so I focus on his chin. It’s not just his looks—that perfect face or the way his presence commands the night around him. He makes me feel on edge. My pulse quickens for reasons I don’t want to admit to myself. There is a pull between us, something dangerous and irresistible, and I hate that I want to explore it.

His mouth twitches up at the corner. It’s a brief gesture, but I see it. I amuse him. “There was no jumping. You yelled something about being a bird, and then Conrad pushed you off the balcony. If you need to feel anger about that night, I am not your target.”

Glancing around the room, I wonder where my brother’s ghost is hiding. I don’t feel Conrad with us,but that means nothing. I don’t want to stir his spirit by talking shit on him.

Costin keeps his attention steady. I wish he’d turn his intensity away. “I know human brains are limited, but do you not remember?”

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