Page 57 of Grim
I frown. “What about it?”
“I think purple is your favorite color,” she says simply.
I blink at her. “You asked me a question and then proceeded to answer it yourself?”
“Well, you were taking too long,” she teases, licking a stray drop of ice cream from her spoon.
I feel something tighten in my chest and in my pants. Fucking perfect.
I arch a brow. “What makes you think my favorite color would be purple?”
She tilts her head, considering. “Not like standard-crayon-box purple,” she clarifies. “You’re far too sophisticated for that, Grim—I know that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you mocking me?”
She grins. “A little.”
I exhale through my nose, already regretting sittingdown. “Go on then,” I say dryly. “Enlighten me. What kind of purple am I exactly?”
She hums, tapping her spoon against her chin. “I see you as a deep, dark purple,” she declares. “Not the kind with red undertones—no, that would be too passionate. Yours would have blue undertones. Something cool, controlled, balanced. A color that holds weight, but doesn’t demand attention.”
“That was oddly specific,” I murmur.
“Well, you are oddly specific, Kane,” she counters, stretching out on the grass and looking up at me through thick, dark lashes.
I should look away. Really, I should. I’ve never been good at doing what I should though.
“You’re a man who’s seen every color the world has to offer,” she continues. “For something to be your favorite, it would have to stand out. It would have to be memorable, different.”
She lets the words linger, something unspoken hovering between us.
Something I refuse to name. For a while, I don’t say anything.
Because the truth is, I don’t think she’s wrong.
Purple—deep, cool, regal—is a color that has always drawn my eye. It’s rich without being garish, elegant without demanding.
I clear my throat, tamping down the lingering sensation her words leave behind. “You’re dangerously perceptive,” I say at last.
“It’s a gift.” Her smirk is infuriating.
I shift my focus to her instead, deciding it’s only fair to turn the question back on her.
“So,” I say, leaning in slightly, letting my voice drop into something low and deliberate, “what’s your favorite color, Mayday?”
For the first time since I met her, Rue pauses. Her pupils dilate, and her plush lips part ever so slightly. Does she feel something?
Before I can think too much about it, Rue blinks and clears her throat to answer; her voice is quieter than before.
“The color of the sky before a storm,” she murmurs,watching the clouds roll overhead. “When it’s almost black but still blue. When it looks like it’s holding something wild inside it, something waiting to break loose.”
I stare at her for a long, long moment. Because that is precisely what she looks like to me. Something on the verge of breaking loose. Something beautiful and fleeting and impossible to hold.
Rue turns her head toward me, brows raised slightly.
“You look like there’s a battle being waged behind your eyes,” she observes.
“That’s because there is.” No sense in denying it.
