Page 81 of Even Angels fall
I know it’s supposed to be our wedding night, and I don’t know what it says about me that I’m going to spend it in the archives of Notre Dame, poring over ancient lore about dragons in order to find a way to kill my husband, but I don’t want to think about it. Right in this instant, I just want to save my best friend, my husband be damned.
Elhyor just nods, and then I’m walking to the stairs that lead to the basement.
Archives and sleepless night, here I come.
51
Elhyor
Angélique is acting weird, even weirder than she usually does, and I’m not sure what I should think about it.
After that kiss at the wedding, and the one during the game, I thought that maybe she had felt something. Even just a spark, when I’m boiling inside with an untamed inferno, would do.
But instead, she told me twelve hours ago that I needn’t to wait for her on our fucking wedding night and disappeared into Notre Dame’s belly.
I didn’t want us to have sex. Hell, I didn’t want to even have to share a bed. That’s what I keep repeating to myself, so why is it making me so mad that she barely acknowledged our wedding?
Liar.
I know why. I know exactly why, and that’s the same reason I’m lying to myself when I say I don’t want her in my bed.
It’s easier to say I don’t want her close to me, or that I don’t want her at all. It’s easier because, if I acknowledge it, I wouldhave to acknowledge that those kisses fundamentally changed me.
It’s not just the dragon’s instincts that crave contact, that crave for her skin. No, I tasted her lips, and now I want to taste her skin. I want to taste her in the most intimate way. I want to make her moan. I want to own her moans like I want to own her body. Because, even if she doesn’t know it yet, even if she thinks this wedding is nothing but one of convenience, she’s purely and utterly… mine.
I also know that she isn’t ready to hear any of that.
From what I overheard when her father tried to single her out, he still wants something from her, and I believe that’s why her best friend is currently nursing a hangover. Everything points to his brain being fried by tonight, and it’s why my bride is hiding in the archives.
If I had to bet, I’d say that she’s probably trying to find a way to kill me, I think as I make my way down the stairs leading to the archives.
Everything is quiet when I arrive. Nothing can be heard; not even the sound of pages being turned.
As I turn the first row of shelves and walk in the direction of the oldest books at the back of the archives, I hear a sound beside my own steps.
It’s a soft breathing. I follow the sound until I finally find my wife, asleep amongst the stacks.
On each side of the nook where she decided to do her research, there are shelves filled with ancient books about everything—and nothing. Angélique is sitting on the ground, her head propped against one of the shelves. One book is on her lap and a dozen others on each of her sides. She’s sitting cross-legged, and her dark wedding dress has bunched around her hips, leaving her legs bare and giving me an unobstructed view.
I should leave. I shouldn’t even look, but I’m transfixed by the sight, and my earlier thoughts come back to haunt me, making me want to trace the lines made by her scars with my fingers, my lips, and my tongue.
She looks so soft and so young like this, with her shoes discarded next to her.
She also looks serene, and it pains me to realize this is the first time I’ve seen that emotion on her face.
She always looks so guarded, so on edge and so controlled. I know she thinks she is sassy when she answers me, but I’ve seen her open her mouth to say something and stop herself more than once. I’ve seen her interact with her father, even if just a moment, and yes, she is guarded, but she always has a good reason for it.
This—seeing her this way—feels like an intrusion, too intimate, and I know I should leave her here, but I’m greedy. I haven’t been able to look my fill of her since she arrived. First, because of my own stupidity, wanting to avoid her, and second, believing I could live without her.
Now I know, and I have a feeling I still won’t get enough time with my wife.
I should get her up to bed. If she sleeps, there is less of a chance that she could find a means to kill me that would work this time.
I should, but instead, I collect the books that are on her left side and put them a bit further away as I sit right next to her, my head against the shelves like her.
It’s not comfortable. Not at all. And I wonder how she managed to fall asleep just like that. It takes a certain ability to be able to fall asleep in the most uncomfortable positions, and I don’t think I’ll ever get that one.
Slowly, I remove the book that is on her lap and put it on top of the ones I just moved.
