Page 16 of Your Echo
He looks so vulnerable right now, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he avoids my eyes. I wonder if he’s blushing, but I can’t tell in the darkness. Part of me wants to laugh at his discomfort. The rest of me wants to reach out and pat him on the shoulder.
I settle for a soft chuckle. “Yeah, some of my ‘fucking stupid’ suggestions have a habit of actually being helpful. Maybe remember that next time.”
“Next time?” he repeats.
“Are you still coming to my sessions on Sundays?”
He shrugs, his stance loosening as he gets his confidence back. “I’m still deciding.”
It takes me a moment to realize the sinking sensation in my stomach is disappointment. Laughter erupts in the kitchen and we both glance towards it before looking back at each other.
“Guita—the woman who brought all the baklava—thinks you’re my new ‘petit ami.’”
Ace gets a dangerous glint in his eye.
“Oh she does, does she? And what does she think you’re doing out here with your ‘special friend?’’’
Warmth blooms in me as his eyes flick up and down my body. I want to tell myself it’s just the heat of indignation, but being around this man gives me a creeping awareness of every inch of my skin. I feel my pulse hammering in my throat and I imagine what it would feel like if he raised his finger—the one with the same thick ring on it as he wore in the park—and pressed the pad of it to the vein where my jaw meets my throat.
“What is that?” I blurt, lifting my own finger to point at his chest. “That tattoo?”
He tilts his chin down and thumbs the neckline of his shirt. “This one?”
I nod, my rapid heartbeat echoing in my head.
He tugs the shirt down to reveal the upper half of a defined pectoral. I can see enough of the tattoo to realize it’s a black bird, raised wings stretching out on either side of his sternum so the design forms a kind of chest plate.
“A crow?” I question.
He lets his shirt snap back into place. “A raven.”
“Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’”
I meant to say it lightly, half-joking, but it comes out breathless. Ace just stares at me, his expression searching.
“You know?” I urge. “That poem? ‘The Raven.’”
He stares for a moment longer. “I know it.”
