Page 125 of The Last One
His lips linger there.
I wince and let out a breath.
His kiss surprises my skin. Like it’s never been kissed before. Like it needs to warn me that something unfamiliar is coming my way.
He moves back.
Lungs tight, I shift to face him and then decide to kneel again.
His eyebrows furrow—Will you be okayin his expression.
I mouthyes, not wanting to break this silence.
His eyes roam my soapy nakedness, and he smiles.
I tug the tail of his shirt and lift it over his head. There’s a scar over his heart, and another above his right ribcage, and another above his hipbone. I kiss each scar, my lips burning every time I touch his skin. The tattoo on his left pectoral is not as complicated as his hand ink. This tattoo is an irregular rectangle with rounded corners, the upper left side shaded with violet ink, the lower left shaded with gold. I trace its outline—curious—and then I kiss it. There’s more ink that runs sideways along the left side of his ribcage. The simple script,With death comes life.I run my tongue along those words, leaving a kiss before I lean away.
“You make me weak,” he whispers.
“You make me burn,” I whisper back.
Immediately, we both reach for the waistband of his pants, and my hand trails lower…lower…until it’s resting on his hard—
“We have crabapples!” Philia shouts from the other side of the cottage.
We both startle backward. Soapy water sloshes over both of us.
“Jadon! Kai! Where are you?” Philia calls.
I stifle a scream. “No!”
He whispers, “What thefuck, Philia?”
I slip back into the bubbles.
He rubs his wet face and takes a deep breath. He pulls on his shirt, eyes on me. “I kept my promise. You saw my ink.”
“And it is marvelous,” I say, winking.
“Hey,” Philia says, rounding the corner of the cottage.
Olivia appears next to Philia. “What’s going on?”
They turn, bug-eyed, and gape at the bubbles and soap. Philia speaks first. “You get to take a bath in the tub?”
“Why do you get special treatment?” Olivia grumbles.
“Because she’s unique,” Jadon says, grabbing our cups and the empty flagon. Before he backs away from the tub, he whispers, “Next time, we won’t stop.”
In a barn. In a garden. Maybe this garden. And we’ll keep going, not stopping until the end of the world.
38
I’m ready to find my pendant.
A new morning has come, and the forest looms before me.
As the light from the daystar disappears behind the trees, the thorns of underbrush grow powerful and claw at my ankles. The uneven ground slows my pace. I’m overly cautious, not wanting to injure myself simply because I’m rushing. I run my bare hands over the fallen leaves—combing the earth for the smooth onyx stone in the moth’s thorax, the bumpy red and gold jewels that make up her wings. But I’m touching only dirt, leaves, and an occasional centipede.
