Page 49 of Crimson Promises
“How am I supposed to control this?” I gestured to the length of my body. “It’s not like there’s a support group out there for people with weird abilities that they mostly forgot about because it hadn’t happened since they were a kid and you don’t talk about it otherwise people will think you’re crazy, so to keep some semblance of normalcy to your life you force yourself to forget it’s there,” I vented, everything coming out in a whoosh of breath. “There’s no rule book I can grab that dictates Magical Powers for Dummies.”
“Let’s go with that then. You gave yourself a slight cut with the knife. The width of a paper cut.”
“I guess that makes the most sense right now.”
“Give me your hand.” Ben pulled out a Cookie Monster band-aid. When I made a face, he said, “It’s either this or Oscar the Grouch.”
“Cookie Monster, please.”
He covered my cut with the bandaid. My skin looked like it had stitched itself together. It was pink at the ends where the cut had been the shallowest. Where the blade had sliced deeper, it looked rougher: scraped and more red than pink. The deep wound had significantly repaired itself, as if time had reversed itself, and my body was rejecting the fact that I had been injured at all.
I watched Ben go into fixing mode, wiping the blade clean, and putting the supplies back where he found them.
My heart was racing. I tried to calm it down with rational thought. Ben didn’t freak out when I shared one of my secrets with him. He didn’t look at me like I was some alien. If anything, his only interest seemed to be set on protecting me. That should make me swoon. And if it were fifteen minutes ago, I would have melted. But I couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that something about his reaction was off.
He should have freaked out. There was no way he could have known about this—no one did except Remy. And he was imaginary. All the incidents, except the car accident, happened when I was a kid. Usually, no one else was around. And if they were, I was young enough that it was brushed aside. Ben effortlessly stepped into the role of protector, one he seemed perfectly comfortable with.Maybe he is still in shock?
The warmth he showed me a few minutes ago was gone; his alternate persona was back. Assessing and analyzing.
Dealing with the two sides of his personality was like whiplash. Every time I made progress, his iron walls shot straight back up.
I pushed myself off the counter. “We should probably sit outside for a few minutes to keep up appearances. Victor’s a shrewd one. I don’t want him suspecting that there’s anything off.”
“After you.”
I picked up my glass of wine, placed the dessert on the table for anyone who wanted, and pulled open the French doors. Personally, I was way too stuffed to eat anything else right now.
Darlene and Vic were nestled beneath a quilt before an electric fireplace. Next to them was a loveseat. I grabbed the quilt off the corner and wrapped myself in it.
“Thank you for cleaning everything up,” Darlene said her eyes fluttering open and closed.
“Our pleasure. Thank you for cooking such a delicious meal,” I replied. The cushion next to mine dipped as Ben sat beside me. I spread out the blanket folded in the corner over me.
I tilted my head back, marveling at the sea of stars spread before me. A tug on the quilt drew my attention to Ben.
“Mind sharing?” he whispered.Like I said, whiplash.
Wordlessly, I used my free hand to hold the quilt open for him. Underneath the blanket, he put his arm around me and drew me closer to him.
I glanced to the left of me. Darlene was fast asleep on Vic’s shoulder. He looked at me, pointed to her, and mouthed, “Is she sleeping?”
I smiled and nodded.
He winked at me before delicately kissing her forehead. Then Vic gingerly scooped her up and carried Darlene inside.
I shivered. It was chillier out here than I expected. As if in tune with my body, Ben’s hands lifted the back of my knees so my legs draped over his.
“Better?” he murmured.
My body was on high alert, cataloging every part he touched. “Yeah, thanks.”
The silence ate at my irritation. I glanced sidelong at him, tapping my nail on the stem of my wineglass.I shouldn’t say anything.
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” he asked.
Well, there goes that idea.
“I don’t understand you,” I confessed.
