Page 103 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

“For me, good,” said Collins fervently. “Like light and air could finally get in. At least until the Library snatched me up, and even that hasn’t been all bad. I’ve learned a hell of a lot.”

“You and Nicholas seem to get along,” Joanna ventured.

“Sure, aside from the fact that he’s spoiled rotten and basically useless,” Collins said. “Like his stupid little dog.” He smiled as he said it, though, like he couldn’t help himself.

She had to ask. “Are you and him...”

“Nah,” said Collins, and glanced at her sidelong. “I, um. I prefer... long hair.”

Joanna was glad for the low light and the fact that her own long hair was pulled over one shoulder, partially obscuring her face from him, because she could feel her cheeks flooding hot.

She tried to keep her tone light. “Why not grow yours out, then?”

“In high school it was to my shoulders,” he said. “Dyed black. I was a wannabe goth. Painted my fingernails black, too.” He held out a hand to let her imagine it, though she found herself imagining something else entirely.

“How did you go from wannabe goth to hired muscle?”

Collins moved his shoulders, halfway to a shrug but not quite. “I was already this size by the time I was like, fourteen,” he said. “Kids in school kinda took that as a challenge, I guess. Guys were always coming at me. My mom got tired of seeing me with black eyes, so she put me in karate, and then I started boxing in high school, and once I turned eighteen, I started bouncing at nightclubs. Paid my way through college.”

She felt a pang of envy. “You went to college? What did you study?”

“Hospitality,” he said, already laughing at himself before he’d finishedthe word. “My aunt owned this shitty motel for a while, she talked me into it. But I was one class away from a minor in art history. That’s more up your alley I bet, right?”

“Hospitality sounds nice,” she said dubiously, though she had no idea how a person could study such a thing. Did he get pop-quizzed on how to take someone’s coat?

“What would you have studied?” he said.

“English,” she said immediately.

“What kind of stuff do you like to read? Besides spells, I mean.”

“Anything, really,” she said. Then, because the lid on her life had already been cracked and she may as well push it open further, she turned her face toward the light, looked him in the eye, and said, “Especially romance.”

Collins didn’t look away. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why.”

She wanted to say something flirtatious, something about sex scenes, maybe. Instead she told a deeper truth. “Romance novels are about connection. About people who connect with one another against the odds—despite their differences, their flaws, their secrets. In a romance novel you never have to worry, you know everything will end happily.”

“Unlike real life,” Collins said. “In real life you have to worry.”

“Exactly. That’s why I used to prefer novels.”

“Used to?”

“Now I’m not so sure.”

He tilted his head. “I’ve spent the last six months under a silencing spell that basically ruled out any chance I had of connecting with another person,” he said. “Take it from me. The real thing is worth all the worry in the world.”

Something about his posture had changed, a subtle reorientation that sent every nerve in Joanna’s body crackling to sudden, explosive attention. His gaze was fixed on her mouth. “Are you worried right now?” she said.

He leaned closer. “Yup.”

The air vanished from her lungs. Collins’s eyes were all black pupil, those spiky shadows trembling on his cheek, and he was closing the distance between them centimeter by centimeter, his movements agonizingly slow, like he was waiting for her to stop him. A distantly hysterical part of her wanted to laugh at this.Stophim?

When he finally kissed her, it was soft, tentative. For a second. Then she wound her arms around his neck and parted her lips beneath his and he hauled her in closer, his hands on her waist, the small of her back, tangled in her hair, and it wasn’t soft at all. This was a kiss that had no relationship whatsoever to the toothy make outs she remembered from high school, this was a different action altogether; a time-stopping, full-body action that sent heat surging across Joanna’s skin even as she shivered beneath Collins’s touch. He kissed her searchingly, like she was a page he couldn’t wait to turn, and the thrill of it was so good that for a moment she thought the loud churn of an engine was the sound of her own body, her long-dormant machinery coming to life with a growl and a bang. Then, more quickly than it had begun—too quickly—the kiss stopped.

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