Page 50 of A Match Made in Hell
‘Willow!’ A hand grabs my wrist. I jerk back. It’s hard to focus. Harper stands in front of me. Her hair is tied into space buns again; I want to poke my finger through the middle of one, but I’m dimly aware that would be inappropriate. I settle for staring at her brand-new nose ring instead. She waves a hand in front of my face. ‘Are you okay?’
I am more than okay. I am delightful. I open my mouth to tell her, and fail. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. It hurts. I still don’t have my nuggets. The room tilts on its axis. ‘Have you seen any chicken?’
‘No . . .’ She peers at me. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Perfect,’ I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the dance floor. Amelia and Henry are there too, and Henry is wearing the most spectacular pair of flared trousers I’ve ever seen. Silver and glittering, like a disco ball exploded near him. I press a kiss to his cheek, leaving an imprint of dark red on the corner of his mouth. In return, he hands me a glass full of pink wine. ‘I was told to give you this.’
I can’t grab it fast enough.
The glass is cool against my fingers. I swirl the liquid round and round. I want it. I want it badly. Maybe just one sip. Sath won’t find out. Except –
I turn to find his eyes are on me. One leg crossed over his knee, his elbow leaning against the arm of the throne, the picture of relaxed. But I know him better than that. I know what it means when his eyes turn golden, like honey: that the flames are only a moment behind, and it’s me making him angry, becausehe thinks I’m going to do something stupid, to fail –
I spill the contents on the floor. ‘I don’t want it.’
It’s a lie. I’m trapped in a desert, sinking into the sand, and I’ve thrown away my only oasis. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. I. Am. Delightful. We dance in a circle, and through the throng of people around us, I catch a glimpse of red eyes, a spiked tail, a feeling of burning loathing spearing in my direction. I ignore it. Aric can’t touch me tonight, not when I’m floating like this. Henry performs flamboyant dance moves and I laugh and laugh and laugh, Amelia’s arm linked through mine, Harper’s grin almost enough to pour warmth into that empty space in my stomach. Almost, but not enough.
I’m so very, very thirsty.
Despite it all, my gaze keeps drifting to Sath. He sits alone. Nobody, not even the demon handing him drink after drink, talks to him. He must be sad, spending an eternity by himself.
The pounding in my head propels me towards him. He has what I want. A whole tray of drinks sits next to him now. He can spare me one. He can.
I just have to make him want to.
I leave my friends behind – the only thing I need right now is Sath and his delicious tray of alcohol – and mosey over to the throne. The charcoaled steps leading to the dais are awfully steep up close. Sath’s lips twitch as I clamber up in a manner which cannot, in any way, be described as graceful.
I think I may be sweating. I’m certainly warm. I don’t let that deter me as I plop on to the arm of his throne and smile benevolently at him. I’m doing a good deed. I’m keeping him company.
My mouth waters.
‘Come for another drink?’ Sath takes a sip of his own. I follow the movement of the glass to his lips, of the way his throat bobs as he swallows. I want to rip the glass from his hands. I wantto open his mouth and take the fluid right out of him. I want, I want, I want . . . I toss my hair over my shoulder. My neck is damp. Sath puts the glass down and gestures at my current position on his throne. ‘I could send you to Glacantrum for insubordination.’
‘You could,’ I say. ‘But you won’t. I’m the only one who talks to you.’
‘Is that so?’ The corners of his mouth turn up. A little thrill shoots through me; I did this,Imade him smile, because I’m his favourite. I’ve never been anyone’s favourite before.
Then I realise he’s not smilingatme, he’s smilingbecauseof me.
I appear to be falling into his lap.
I straighten. ‘I’m dizzy.’
‘It’s the drink.’
‘Youdon’t seem dizzy.’ All the drinks next to him are green. Will wine without the venom be enough to soothe me? It’ll have to be. I lean forward, towards the tray on the other side of him, my arm reaching out –
‘Unlike you,’ Sath says, lightly pinching my elbow, ‘I can hold my liquor.’
The sting on my skin is enough to snap me out of my blatant attempt at thievery. Huffing, I readjust, trying to get comfy. The slit up the side of my dress spreads apart, revealing bare skin and too much thigh. Sath stares at the exposed flesh for a second before taking another drink and observing the crowd.
I survey them with him, like we’re holding court together. From up here, on a night like this with no violence, and the tingling, floating feeling singing in my veins, it’s almost pleasant. I catch a glimpse of the Sorter on the dance floor, her head thrown back, grinning at a demon with antlers protruding from its forehead.
A touch on my calf jerks my focus. It’s nothing, light asa feather, one stroke then another to get my attention, but something about it sends a fresh rush of need racing through me, one that’s more all-consuming than my desire for a drink.
‘It’s not safe for you to stay too long,’ Sath says. ‘The demons will ask questions. You should get back down there.’
I stare at him, pulse racing. Willow should do this, Willow should do that. What about what Willow wants?
