Page 27 of Holly & Hemlock
That’s all I need to say, because half a second later, his lips find mine. Safe yes, but gentle? Hell no. His lips move over mine, his hand squeezes my waist and his other wraps itself in my hair. I open for him and he growls, slipping his tongue past my lips. Needing. Claiming.
All too soon, things stop. Our breaths tangle as we pant, staring, so much said between us without a single word.
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually he breaks the spell, sitting back.
He says, “Fire needs boundaries.” The words are almost a warning, but his grip on my hand is firm.
I squeeze, just once, then let go.
He releases me, stands up in a single, fluid movement. The sudden absence is jarring, as if I have lost a layer of skin.
He stands over me, looking down. “If you need anything, I’ll be here.” he says again, but this time the meaning is transparent.
He leaves without another word. The door closes with a soft, final sound.
I sit there, hand still suspended in air, tracing the phantom print of his touch across my palm. The room is warmer than before, but I am acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin.
I lay back on the rug, blanket bunched beneath my head, and watch the fire devour its own heart. I think of Lane, and his hands, and the way he never quite smiles but sometimes wants to.
The night is very long, but I sleep anyway. I dream of storms and fires and hands guiding mine, strong and unyielding and alive.
ACT II
THE GAMES
8
Conservatory Chess
By morning, the fire is gone and the Blue Room is a tomb. I wake to thoughts of Lane. The way he kissed me, filled with longing, fire, power. But a safety I’d never known.
My mind flashes to Larkin’s kiss. Entirely different. I don’t know why I’ve kissed two men in the past two days. I haven’t kissed anyone in over a year. And here I was kissing every man in the vicinity.
What is wrong with me? I question if it’s the house. Could it be taking over my mind like I was beginning to suspect? Or are these men somehow impossible to resist?
I don’t think it matters what the reason is. Something tells me I’m just a pawn here, and it’s the men playing chess. Or the house itself.
I’m still wearing yesterday’s sweater, and it is stiffer than when I slept, sweat and smoke and the ghosts of long-dead trees cling to every fiber.
My hands ache from the cold, and I flex them open and closed until feeling returns in a flash of pins and needles.
When I stand, I see someone has slipped a note under mydoor. I find it, folded and damp from the draft, just inside where my boots are lined up like soldiers on parade.
Miss Vale,
Chess at eleven in the conservatory. Dress accordingly. —LH
I rubmy thumb across the paper, smearing the letters with a faint bloom of ink. Below the message is a perfect hand-drawn diagram of a chess opening. Ruy Lopez, Morphy Defense. White to move.
I told him I didn’t play, which was a lie. But he didn’t seem to believe it or didn’t seem to care. I stare at the note longer than necessary, wondering if Larkin ever played fair in anything.
The halls are empty when I descend to the main floor, each step echoing in the hush that always follows a storm. Outside, the world is encased in a living sarcophagus of ice. The snow has stopped, but the wind is working in new ways, flaying the trees to their bones and rattling the gutters until they scream.
I’m hungry, but the thought of food makes my stomach contract. Instead, I follow the path to the conservatory, through a series of rooms that are colder and emptier than I remember. The only sign of habitation is a line of footprints, perfectly preserved in the velvet carpet, each one crisp and solitary, leading the way forward.
The door to the conservatory is a set of double glasspanels, clouded with condensation and rimed at the edges with white. I push them open and step inside.
It is another world.
