Page 69 of The Second Death of Locke
“Captain Seward,” she said, holding fast as he dropped to his knees and turned to face her. He kept his other hand on her ribs for stability—she was grateful, because she wasn’t sure how she’d remain upright otherwise. “You fucking cretin.” Panic flickered across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He laughed, the noise more of a scoff, harsh and disappointed and maybe even disbelieving. “You never kissed back,” he said.
She sucked a breath, the realization running straight to her stomach. He’d always been affectionate, yes—and she’d thought nothing of it. But every time he’d touched her, every time he’d kissed her forehead or her temple or the back of her hand, every time he’d folded himself around her… perhaps each moment had been its own confession.
And she, in her endless attitude ofI bet you say that to all the girls and at least half of the boys, had utterly ignored it. She’d argued herself out of any possibility that even the most obvious sign was just another affection she didn’t deserve.
“Fucking seas, Kiernan,” she growled. Grey leaned across the chasm between them, grabbed him by the lapels of his worn coat, and pulled his mouth down to hers.
They’d kissed before—not like this, never like this, not even whenhe had kissed her the other day—but his lips to her lips in a move she always wrote off as chaste. After battle, when they were alone again and alive, or sometimes before bed, when he’d kissed her temple and then her mouth. He probably imagined he was stealing those kisses, Grey thought desperately, before any thoughts washed away in the overwhelming headiness of him.
He pulled her into him like he could sink into her skin and become one body. His hands were on her waist, thumbs digging into her ribs, fingers against her vertebrae. She tangled one hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder, mostly for balance. Out of her blanket, there was so much of her skin against the fabric of his shirt and so little of his skin against hers. She scrabbled at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it untucked so she could slide her hands over the planes of his stomach, her thumb rubbing against his newest scar. She hissed as his lips went to her neck. Something opened within her, the slice of a knife in the bottom of her stomach, and she felt the smallest shift as thin, staticky power returned to her.
She dug her fingers in, holding him against her. He nipped her collarbone. “Don’t push yourself,” he murmured against her skin. He kissed the edge of her jaw, the crest of her cheekbone. “You’re still unwell.” He pulled away so he could look at her, and she shivered at the loss of warmth. “And everyone is worried—I shouldn’t keep you to myself.”
She moved her hands to his shoulders. “You could, if you want.”
He laughed, leaning forward to kiss her with an exuberant joy that she felt through the tether. “There will be time,” he promised.
But—as the ambush the other night handily demonstrated—there was no guarantee of that. Grey pushed down the rush of uncertain sadness and managed a smirk. “I’m surprised we made it this long without interruption.”
“Ah, I gaveverystrict instructions.”
He helped her back against the wall and wrapped the blanket over her shoulders.
“Kier,” she said.
“Yes?”
“You don’t hate me?”
“I could never hate you,” he said, so sincerely it physically hurt.
“I mean, even now you know what I am.”
He was silent for a long moment, watching her face. “I’vealwaysknown what you were,” he said finally, carefully. “Perhaps I didn’t always know what it meant, what it meant you coulddo, but it changes nothing.”
Grey nodded, letting herself relax. If Kier said it, above all, she believed him.
He stroked her hair tenderly, pausing after a moment, a smile spreading across his face. “Hand,” he said wearily, “do you evernothave blood in your hair?”
She tipped her nose up, grasping his hand. “Perhaps I could be convinced to try harder. Maybe during retirement?”
He leaned down and kissed her once more, a promise of things to come. “It can’t happen fast enough,” he said.
It was Ola who came in first, Grey’s healer’s kit in hand. Her mouth was set in a grim line and she had dirt streaked across one cheek.
“Lie back, Captain,” she said. Grey did, sliding back on the tangle of fabric. She’d discovered after Kier left that it was a heap of coats protecting her from the wood floor, and had to bite her lip at the rush of emotion that came when she realized that everyone had donated their coat in this cold for the sake of keeping her warm.
She pressed her lips together as Ola moved down to palpate her abdomen. “Was anyone else hurt? I can—”
“Captain.”Ola pinched her side. “Stop being a hero and let us take care of you,” she said, exasperated.
Grey stopped trying to be a hero. She stared straight up at the thatch ceiling as Ola sat back on her heels to carefully brew a tea to ease her pain.
“Why ‘Captain?’” she asked, despite herself.
“Hmm?”
