Page 54 of A Match Made in Hell
‘Absolutelynot,’ I say, wrenching from his grasp and spinning to face him, despite the voice in my head that’s sayingyes . . . whatever he offers you . . . yes. ‘Is all this –’ I gesture between us – ‘what you’re doing, just to distract me into failing this task?’
He steps back into my space. Before I can stop him, his hands are on my waist, tugging me against him once more, and I am forced to ignore the obvious indication this wasn’t all for show pressing against my stomach. I shiver, looking over his shoulder, desperate for a distraction. Those dancing nearby still aren’t watching us, too lost in their own daze, spurred on by a combination of the music and the potency of the drinks, and I can only hope they’ve been like that the whole time.
‘As much as I’d like you to pass,’ Sath says, answering my question, ‘I have a job to do. I have to offer.’
‘And hope I say no.’
‘And hope you say no.’
We stare at one another. I don’t want to say no. I don’t want to say no to any of it. And that scares me. I sink against him, letting the music take over, dancing for the sake of dancing and allowing his hands to roam up and down my spine. All those nights back on Earth, I danced with plenty of people. Never like this though. The thought should be a cold bucket of water on my head, telling me to stop, that this isn’t acceptable, I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this. I have a boyfriend. Who doesn’t know I have a way to get back to him, but . . . semantics.
Sath’s trying to get me flustered. He’s admitted as much. Butthere’s something almost gentle in the way he touches me now, and it makes me ache for something I haven’t had in a long time. His fingers find a new path, up my arm this time, tracing along my collarbone and towards my neck.
They settle against my pulse. My stupid, traitorous, racing pulse.
It shouldn’t evenbethere. And yet it beats anyway, telling him how close I am to losing control, to demanding –
I don’t let my mind go there. There isn’t anything else I want.
Nothing apart from going home and becoming Willow 2.0, a person who doesn’t attack demons or get confused when she dances with the Devil.
Even the need for wine is fading. The fog clouding my brain lifts as a fresh band takes over from the musicians in the corner, their set complete. I’m no longer floating and dizzy, but grounded against Sath. Sath, whose chin is resting against my temple. He turns his head a fraction, burrowing his nose into my hair, and I swear heinhales.
I pull away. He stares down at me, eyes dark but not aflame, looking at me like I’m the only person around, the only one who matters. He might not have said any of the honeyed words Noah used to make me fall under his spell, but I’m entranced anyway.
His grip on my waist tightens. Trapped under the weight of his gaze, I am suddenly sure of two things: 1) I would not be opposed to him kissing me right now, and 2) I have got to get out of here, because I do not know where point one has come from.
This is a problem. This is a big problem. My chest constricts; my heart scrambles for escape. Alarms are screeching in my head, but my body is ignoring them all. I’m rising on tiptoe, wanting to close the gap between us once and for all, and Sath is leaning down, fingers leaving my waist to cup my chin, tilting my head up to meet his, but it’s the wine, this whole thing is down to the wine –
A pair of particularly energetic dancers bump my shoulder. It jolts me into reality, and I gasp, jerking back. What am I doing?
What am I doing what am I doing what am I doing?
Sath blinks, dropping his hands to his sides and staring at me like he’s never seen me before. Like he wasn’t just about to . . . Blood thunders in my ears. How dareheact like the one who was about to make some misguided mistake when he instigated this in the first place? Every confused feeling I’m having is his fault, for blurring the lines between reality and the game we’re playing.
Blind fury crushes every other emotion.
‘It must have been three hours by now.’ I fight to stop my voice trembling. ‘I don’t want your drink, okay? I don’t want anything from you. Let me go.’
A cloud of black smoke curls around his shoulders.
‘Then congratulations.’ He sounds cold now, detached. ‘You’ve passed gluttony.’
‘Perfect.’ It comes out as more of a screech, and I shove past him to get off the dance floor, get away from this place. I want to rip this dress off my body and scrunch it into a ball and pretend it never existed, pretend he never touched me in it. I think he calls my name, but I could easily have been imagining it, because I’m still, despite everything, so thirsty, so desperate for him to haul me towards him and do all the things to me I want him to.
I feel marginally better when I step outside Dionysus and the cool air hits my flushed skin, although it’s not enough to quell my parched throat or fill my barren stomach. Clutching the wall for support, I half walk, half drag myself to my room, where I promptly crash into my wardrobe before draining a glass of water and tumbling into bed.
For once, I don’t have nightmares. Instead, I dream of hands on bare skin, lips against my neck, and when my hand slips between my legs, it’s not Noah’s face I’m picturing.
19
Harper ruins my plans to mope in bed by dragging me to Asphodel’s valiant attempt at replicating a garden. Almost. We’re in a cave (of course), and the grass is peacock blue, but therearea lot of plants. Credit where credit’s due, it’s definitely garden-adjacent. Although the dim light is good for my headache, the scent of lilies is nauseating to my already nauseated stomach. They grow from nothing, bright pink petals the size of my head, swaying in a breeze that only touches them. To me, the air is stifling and still; the heat plasters my hair to my neck. Groups of humans play Frisbee and tennis on a large lawn, but I’ve no idea how they manage it in this climate.
I groan for what must be the fiftieth time since we arrived.
‘I think I’m dying.’
‘You’re –’
