Page 69 of Grim
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“You managed to exert some free will when you went and rifled through my private writings,” she mumbles through her breaths as she comes to a stop.
“I wasn’t rifling through the pages. It was open to that page. I only read what was in front of me. And anyamount of free will is reserved only for the living. Enjoy it while it lasts.” I mumble the last sentence, though perhaps I shouldn’t have.
“Oh, don’t split hairs with me, Kane. Those are my words, and you stole them. You took my broken heart and my shattered soul as your own, with no regard for how I would feel. And why? To satisfy your curiosity? You took everything else from the dying girl, so why not this too?”
“Enough.” I take a deep breath.
One of the reasons I didn’t have many friends in my mortal life or in the OtherWorld is that it’s easier to avoid disappointment. If no one relies on me, then I can’t let anyone down.
The fourth rule of theReaper Regulationsstates clearly: ‘Limit personal interaction with assigned souls. Crossovers are cases, not companions. Complete the task and proceed to the next assignment.’
Safe to say that ship has sailed where Rue is concerned. At the very least, I owe her candor now.
“I’m sorry.” I repeat my plea from before in even more earnest. “I’m not trying to defend myself. I’m simply trying to provide context. The book was out. It was on the table. I did not go searching for it or even turn a page.”
She glares at me, but does not yell, which I take as a good sign, so I continue, attempting to insert some levity, “I wouldn’t have read it if I didn’t think it was good. So, really, it’s your fault I read the whole thing. If it was garbage, I would have already set it down.”
“What part of me looks like I am seeking your approval?” she snips, but I notice the softening in her eyes and the slightest blush in her cheeks.
Her hips sway softly, causing her purple plaid skirt to move. I cannot help my momentary scan of her exposed thighs.
“You really liked it?”
Her question snaps my attention back.
“You have a real gift. Shakespeare would have been happy to share his sonnet structure with your words.”
“You recognized the style?” she asks, her ire subsiding and her confidence growing. It looks good on her.
“I’ve been around for a long while, Mayday. Plenty of time to study up on all sorts of things.”
She hums curiously. “You don’t strike me as the poetry type.”
“There’s plenty you don’t know about me, Rue,” I state cryptically, which gives Rue pause.
I absentmindedly rub at my throat as she eyes me.
“Even in the face of having learned what comes after life, I still contend there is nothing quite so magical as a book. Nothing as powerful as a story.”
Rue inches near, a softness and a hunger replacing the fire behind her eyes.
“So,” I venture, “in this story, am I forgiven for reading your poem without permission?”
“I’m considering it,” she muses, her entire demeanor taking on a new edge.
I am intrigued by this side of Rue.
“Anything else I can do to pay penance?”
She thinks, smirks, and speaks softly as she steps even closer to me. “Tell me something, Kane. Tell me a part of your story. You’ve seen me naked. Maybe it’s time to show me the goods.”
I laugh softly to distract from the uncomfortable feeling beginning to surface.
“There’s not much to tell,” I deflect.
This is too much; I can’t play quid pro quo with her. Am I full of regret and shame for peering into her personal thoughts? Yes. But I will not allow her to find a way to break the seal on my box. I refuse to release those demons.
