Page 67 of A Match Made in Hell
‘Well, now I’m worrying about you. You have the whole world at your disposal, and you’re not using it. We don’t have to go yet. We can . . . pretend we’re alive, for a night.’ I jerk my head over his shoulder. There’s a little bar nestled on the street corner, one I wouldn’t usually go in because it’s way too overpriced for a venue where the toilets stink and all the surfaces are sticky, but I also know we won’t be spotted by anyone who expects me to be dead. ‘Please, Sath. Let’s goout. Have some fun. What’s theharm?’
He presses his lips together, rocking on his heels. He’s wavering, a domino poised to fall, and I just need to give him a push.
‘You’re forgetting drinks need to be paid for,’ he says. ‘And neither of us have any money.’
‘If you can summon swords out of thin air, surely you can magic up some cash.’
His eyes flare gold. ‘Perhaps I can only do that in Asphodel.’
I glance around to find wisps of black smoke drifting down the street. Then I spy something else, and grin.
‘Well,’ I say, sidling closer, ‘unless this lump in your pocket is because you’re happy to see me . . .’ Holding his gaze, I slide my hand into his jeans, ignoring the sharp intake of breath he makes when my palm skims his thigh, and grab on to something made of leather and distinctly wallet-shaped. ‘I’d say you’re lying.’
I yank it out and pull it open. Several twenties peek out at me. I beam, tapping it lightly against Sath’s chest – he’s biting the inside of his cheek which tells me he’s as pleased by my discovery as I am – and say, ‘Come on. You’re buying.’
23
We’re greeted by the delightful stench of sweat mixed with soured alcohol, both of which are days old if the lack of patronage is anything to go by. My shoes stick to the floor. Sath makes a less-than-pleased noise behind me, which forces the bartender to glance up from her phone and pay us attention. She looks as shocked to have customers as Sath is to be here.
Her mouth tilts upwards as she takes Sath in. I scowl at her. He’s obviously here with me – his hand is on my waist as he mutters we should leave for somewhere nicer – but I lean closer to him anyway, to prevent any further confusion.
‘Pick a booth,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll get the drinks.’
‘Willow . . .’
‘Trust me.’ I nudge him towards the back of the room. ‘If you don’t want anyone to spot us, this place is where we need to be.’
With a frown, Sath does what he’s told. But that’s okay; I have a plan to remove that frown. It involves tequila. Whatever he’s drinking in Asphodel isn’t doing anything to loosen him up, and if there’s one thing Sath needs, it’sloosening. He’s like a rusty old bolt stuck in the same position for years, and he needs me to prise him free. I’ve never thought of myself as a spanner before, but there we are. I am declaring myself the spanner to Sath’s bolt, and he should be thankful for it.
While we’re here, maybe I can loosen him into spilling someof the secrets he insists on keeping from me. I’m nothing if not a multitasker.
I sidle over to the bar, where the girl can barely hide her disappointment that it’s me and not Sath before her, and purchase a whole bottle of tequila. It’s presented to me alongside two shot glasses with fingerprint stains on the sides and dust coating the bottom.
Sath raises a brow when I deposit them on the table in front of him. ‘I wasn’t aware we were in Tijuana.’
‘Like you’ve ever been on spring break.’ The idea of Sath doing shooters off someone’s stomach is laughable. The image of it, though, is not unappealing. I shake my head to clear away the thought of Sath’s head moving down my body, his lips – I shake my head harder, as the first attempt hasn’t worked. My brain is unstoppable.
The problem, I think, isn’t that Sath’s good-looking. I’ve met plenty of good-looking people. The problem is IknowSath. I like Sath. Worse, despite seeing parts of me most people would deem disappointing, he acts like they don’t matter. I’ve never felt judged in his presence, which makes him all the more dangerous. I don’t have to pretend to be something else, which leaves my mind free to picture things it shouldn’t.
Mum always said my imagination would get me in trouble.
After a moment’s deliberation, I choose the more perilous option of sitting on Sath’s side of the booth, to stop him escaping my interrogation.
‘Let’s play a game,’ I say, twisting the lid off the bottle. ‘Truth or shot.’
Sath leans closer, his knee nudging mine. ‘Are you trying to learn my secrets, Willow White?’
Something about the way he says my name has my toes curling in my boots.
‘Nope.’ I shrug. ‘You’re free to take as many shots as youwant.’
‘Ah, so you’re trying to get me drunk.’ He shifts again, the arm draped over my seat moving closer to my shoulders, before a finger lands on my neck and trails a slow, deliberate path down towards the nape. His voice is low, husky, when he asks, ‘What were you planning on doing with me?’
I shiver, flinching away before he can notice the goosebumps erupting all over my flesh. Can’t he let me suggest a perfectly pleasant game without trying to wind me up over it? I clench both my teeth and my legs before hissing, ‘Nothing worse than what you did to me during gluttony.’
I fling the words as effectively as a bucket of cold water. Sath tenses before sitting back and removing his arm from my shoulder. Instantly, I regret saying anything, because this bar is cold and my dress is too thin. A Sath-shaped furnace is definitely required.
An indecipherable emotion flickers in his eyes. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so terrible,’ he says lightly, ‘dancing with me.’
