Page 279 of Alchemised
She looked for a door. An escape.
He didn’t let go. “Helena …”
She stilled at her name.
“I’m alone, too,” he said.
A lump rose in her throat, her heart pounding. “But I don’t want to hurt you, you don’t deserve—”
He kissed her, swallowing her objections. She didn’t struggle when he pulled her into his arms. The heat of the fire faded until there was only the heat of him, his lips warm against hers, his hands cradling her face. Then there was the softness of a bed beneath her back, pillows and sheets, and she pulled him closer, fingers seeking the buttons on his coat and unfastening them, but he caught her hands in his, holding them captive against his chest, and drew back. He tilted her face into the light.
She stared dazedly at him as he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead and tucked her in as if she were sick and needed nursing.
When she tried to sit up, he sat down next to her and let her huddle close, face buried against his chest.
“Necromancy doesn’t—bring someone back …” he said, “but that can be hard to remember in the moment. When it’s someone you know, when you can feel the span of their loss, it’s instinctive to think it costs that much to bring them back. What you did with Bayard was put a part of yourself into reanimating him. In other circumstances, you could have reversed it, untethered yourself, but he took all of it with him when he was destroyed.”
There was a pause.
“You’ll recover, but it’ll leave a scar. You just have to stay grounded until your mind learns not to go there. Lucky for you, animancy should help with that.”
“Did this ever happen to you?”
He was silent for a minute. “Something similar once, but it was a long time ago.”
Helena curled closer to him, listening to his heartbeat.
He was alive. She had kept him alive. She found his hand, pulling it up near her chin, holding it in both of hers, tracing the ridges of his knuckles, lacing her fingers along them. Just holding on.
She lifted her head to look at him.
He didn’t move, not even when she let go of his hand to reach up and touch his face. Or when she shifted near enough to brush her lips against his cheek. Her fingers traced across his cheekbones, and she kissed his temple and his forehead. Then, hesitantly, she pulled him closer and kissed him on the mouth.
He was fire to touch.
She kissed him slowly until his arms slid around her back and he returned it.
She didn’t know if what she was doing was holding on or letting go.
The first thing his fingers found were the pins in her hair. Her braids tumbled down her back, his fingers combing through them until her hair was loose. His hand tangled through it as he kissed her again.
The kisses were slow. It wasn’t seething or rushed or guilty, but it was still desperate, because he always made her desperate.
She kissed him the way she’d wanted to. The way she’d secretly wished she could.
She could have this.
Once.
She gave a low sob. He paused, but she held on, not letting him go.
“This—is the way I wanted it to be,” she admitted. “With you. I wanted it to be like this with you.”
He went very still.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it wasn’t,” he finally said, pulling her closer.
Had he ever actually been like this? She wondered sometimes how much of her drunken memory of kissing him was real. Or if she’d invented all the intimacy to replay when her life felt too void of any tenderness.
