Page 70 of A Match Made in Hell
‘I have responsibilities.’ His tone is as cold as I am, now his arm has left my shoulder.
I also don’t think my takeaway idea is going to go down well, which is equally disappointing. I may never see a chicken nugget again.
‘Fine,’ I say, aiming for nonchalant. ‘Let’s go home.’
I slide from the booth, stumbling on a step I swear wasn’t there on the way in, and am halfway down the length of the room when I realise Sath isn’t following. Instead, I find him staring at me, mouth ajar. It’s the same look he’s given me before, the one I can’t read but desperately want to. Like I’m a sun rising behind a town bathed in darkness for too long.
Which makes what just happened all the more confusing.
I fold my arms. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Sath shakes his head and finally squeezes out of the booth to join me, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s go.’
Our fingers entwine. He gives me another smile – I’ve lost count of how many I’ve been gifted with tonight, and this one seems different again, more hopeful, a rose divesting itself of its thorns – and the idea I’ll never see it again has me wanting to crack in two.
Has me wanting to sayto hell with the tasks. My chest constricts. Just having the thought sends a stab of guilt slidingbetween my ribs. I promised. Ipromised. No more Bad Decision Willow. Someone always gets hurt in the crossfire of what she wants.
What she wants is him.
The bartender waves as we depart, but Sath doesn’t look at her. Not once.
He can’t take his eyes off me.
24
There are butterflies in my stomach.
I didn’t need or ask for them, but they’ve been there all morning, a festering nest of wings that flutter sporadically. Mostly when I let my mind wander to places it shouldn’t. Currently, my legs are doing some wandering of their own, guiding me to Sath’s rooms for no real reason other than I can’t stay away.
Not even the sight of Aric stops me. He’s standing in the open doorway to the Sorter’s morgue, tail swishing like an agitated cat.
From inside, an equally agitated voice says, ‘I’m serious, Aric, you can’t, not when we’re this close to –’ The Sorter breaks off when she spies me trying to scuttle past. ‘Willow. Wait.’
I wince. Aric looks especially feral today; his hair needs a trim and his claws are extended, dragging a screeching path along the wall.
‘Get lost.’ One of the Sorter’s hooves meets his shin. ‘I want to talk to Willow.’
Aric snarls, but, to my surprise, flounces off without argument. Staring at his retreating form, I ask, ‘Does he always follow orders like that?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ Her response is as sour as a lemon. ‘Come on. Come inside.’
She assumesI’mgoing to follow orders. I am curious, though, what she wants from me, so I follow her in, relieved to find the morgue empty of death for once. The slabs are gleaming, scrubbed free of residue and splatter, and the temperature has been raised a notch with no smells to mask.
‘I bumped into Sath earlier,’ she says with no preamble. Her nose screws up. ‘He was all . . . gooey.’
‘Gooey?’ Honestly, in this place, I have no idea if she means it literally.
‘Happy.’ She says it like it’s a dirty word, choking on the syllables as though her tongue’s grown too big for her mouth.
‘Right.’ My butterflies return in full force. ‘Is that bad?’
‘Oh hells, you’re gooey too.’ Rolling her eyes, she hoists herself on to a slab, hooves dangling a foot from the ground. With a sly smile, she adds, ‘You should know, I found your chart.’
Clipped of their wings, the butterflies tumble to the pit of my belly and disintegrate. ‘And?’
‘And I thought you’d like to read it,’ she says. ‘Here you go.’
It materialises at her side, and she’s shoving it into my hands before I can stop her.
