Page 42 of King Among the Dead

His hand shifted, splayed up across her throat so he could take her jaw in his long fingers and turn her head towards him. They were close, so close his face wanted to blur – but she could see his eyes, gleaming like coins in the soft overhead light of the bathroom. Could feel the heat of his breath against her lips.

How easy it would be to close the distance. Want spiked in her belly. How would he kiss her? Soft and chaste? Or would it be a hungry clash? Would he taste the ghost of blood on her lips if his tongue flicked between them? His fingertips were five burning points against her skin, hotter than the bathwater, not enough, not nearly.

“Beck,” she whispered.

But he drew back. Dropped his hand. Turned his face away, jaw clenched tight, muscle leaping in his jaw. Nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath. His hair shivered against his forehead.

“Beck.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” He picked a bottle up off the shelf. “Wet your hair.”

She slipped down below the surface, let the water close over her head, eyes open so the burn rivaled the sting of forming tears. Shewould notfeel rejected, she told herself, firmly. Beck had already given her everything – food, and shelter, and clothing. A home, and knowledge, and a life – and the strange, thrilling gift of tonight. He’d given her a lesson, given herpermissionto feel this way. And this moment here, pressed together in the tub, was more intimate that kissing and pawing at one another. This was his truth; he’d pulled back the veil of Simon – polished, and polite, a society gentleman – and let her see Arthur beneath: cunning, violent, skilled, bloodthirsty.

What was sex compared to that?

She sat up, water streaming off her face. She wiped her eyes, blinked off crystal droplets, and Beck gathered her wet hair up in lathered hands. Worked the shampoo suds through the ends, and upwards. Massaged her scalp until her neck went weak, drifting again, listing to the quiet pop of bubbles, lulled by the steady motions of his fingers, and of his ribs as he breathed. He was calm again.

Not the manufactured calm of Simon, but something deep and animal. The peace of knowing that he’d protected his den and his people, and that all of them had come out safe on the other side of chaos.

She rinsed her hair, and he took up the soap next. Washed her all over – though his hands never strayed to her breasts, nor between her legs. There was nothing sexual in his touch, nothing untoward or designed to elicit a thrill of pleasure. It felt possessive all the same, though. She was his, and he was cleaning the blood from her, spending long moments on her fingers, working it from every crease, and from beneath her nails. He had introduced her to violence – the kind she could wreak, rather than receive – and he would care for her in its wake.

That was its own kind of pleasure.

When she was pink and clean, she twisted around so she faced him, up on her knees. She could feel the water streaming down her breasts, the coolness of the air pebbling her nipples. But Beck tipped his head back and looked up at her face, gaze never straying.

Maybe he really doesn’t want me, she thought, with a pang. It was alright if he didn’t. Probably for the best.

“Your turn,” she said, and picked up the shampoo.

He studied her a moment, before the corners of his eyes crinkled in a tiny smile. “Alright.” He ducked his head, came up wet and blinking, and turned around, knees jacked up to his chest, so she could wash his hair.

It was longer when wet, an inch past his shoulders, and darker: threshed wheat, and poured honey, and melted chocolate through her fingers, heavy and soft as an animal pelt.

The water finally grew too cold for comfort, and Beck pulled the drain with a sincere look of regret. They dried off with thick towels, and the moment was quiet, subdued. She didn’t sneak any looks at him because she didn’t feel the need to, now, her eyelids heavy, and her heart full, and her disappointment an understandable sort: she had a crush, a girl’s crush, and even if it never faded, even if it grew, and began to hurt, it would be an endurable pain. She wouldn’t lose Beck, especially not to her own emotions.

He found clothes of his own for her to wear, a shirt that swallowed her up, and a soft pair of cotton shorts. He pulled on a pair of black pajama bottoms, and stood before her with his hair wild and drying, his gaze somewhere between sleepy-soft and acutely earnest.

He caught her face in both hands. “Rose, you were wonderful.” He kissed the top of her head, lingering there, inhaling the shampoo scent from her scalp. Then kissed her forehead and drew back. “We’ll talk about things tomorrow. I’ll explain.”

She nodded, and started to withdraw.

His eyes widened, a moment of something like panic, and he held her fast. “Will you stay?”

Her eyes stung again, and she blinked hard. “Of course.”

They lay down in his big bed, the cool sheets delicious against overheated skin. Faced one another, hands resting inches apart on the mattress.

“Goodnight, Rosie.”

“Goodnight, Beck.”

She drifted off looking at his face, and dreamed of blood, and the sharpness of his cheekbones, and the new-coin brightness of his eyes.

THIRTEEN

Rose woke the next morning in her own bed, all tucked in. She’d slept so soundly that she hadn’t felt Beck carry her there.

She dressed in a hurry, and went down to breakfast. A tray of berries and a dish of yogurt were already at the table, and Beck turned sausage links in a pan at the stove.

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