Page 55 of Widow's Walk

What I mightfeel.

So, I’ve been avoiding him as much as humanly possible. Going out on more shopping sprees, wandering the hedge mazewith Blender, clinging to the shadows like a vengeful little plague.

But when wedocross paths, I do a great job at pretending like I’m as solid as ever. Neither of us brings it up, but he’s different. In the way he touches me for the sake of touching me, so casually. A light caress down my cheek with the pad of his thumb. Brushing my fingers in passing. Kissing me without devouring me and tearing my clothes off.

And I let him. I don’t pull away, but I don’t lean into it either. And I never make the first move. Reciprocation is all I can offer. It’s the only currency I trust.

We may come from the same world, but our lives were nothing alike. I’ve never had a relationship. Never even seen one up close. Not romantically, not platonically. Hell, I wasn’t even friends with my siblings. Watching Dario and Jacqueline Golzar is the closest I’ve gotten, and it’s fuckingweird.

She was forced into her marriage like the rest of us ill-fated bitches, but she seems…happy.

It’s so unnatural.

As if she had learned to love her captor. The whole Stockholm syndrome thing. Or maybe he somehow earned it.

I can’t think too long about marrying Blackwell. Every time the thought tries to slither its way in, I shove it down with the rest of the bottom-feeders in my mental basement. Alongside shame, want, compassion, and trust.

I don’t hate it here. Sure, I’m bored to death most days, but I don’t always feel the need to keep my bedroom locked at all times, or sleep with one eye open. I don’t trust any of them, oranyonein general, but I feel somewhat safe here.

Maybesafeisn’t the right word.

I think it’s content.

Yes, I feel content.

Turning a corner, half-expecting to be alone, there he is. Manifesting himself like he knew he was on my mind. All clean lines and subtle assuredness, standing there like he’s been waiting for me.

I slow to a stop, letting him come to me. When he reaches, his arms automatically go around my waist, and his face softens. Without a word, he kisses me like he hasn’t seen me in so long. Desperate but unhurried. With warmth that’s reserved for something soft and real. Not for steeled mobsters like us.

I kiss him back with a smirk curving my lips. Cool and detached as always. “Stalking me, Blackwell?” I rest my arms on his shoulders.

“Always have,” he rasps between kisses. “Losing your touch,Sinister Sinclair?”

I grin at the most common nickname people have for me. “I preferLady Lobotomy.”

He chuckles, pausing his lips for a moment. “I haven’t heard that one yet.”

“That’s because your brother recently came up with that one.”

He looks down at me, head tilted, half a smirk, eyes sparkling. I can’t take it. “Fitting.”

I need distance. Instead of running my fingers through his hair like I’m dying to, I drop my hands. He takes the hint and follows suit. His ease unwavering.

“So, where are you headed off to? Another meeting with plans of global domination? Or global annihilation?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, averting his gaze. He’s hiding something. “Just business as usual.”

“So, murder then,” I tease.

His half smirk stretches. “I’d like to have dinner tonight.”

“Then have dinner. No one’s stopping you.” I breeze by him.

“Funny,” he says dryly, matching my steps. “Six o’clock.”

“Not going to tell me to wear something nice?” I sass.

“Would it matter if I did?”

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