King Among the Dead - Lauren Gilley Page 0,17
that was the thought that popped into her head as she watched him: being on the other side of the glass from a lion or tiger. Only there was no glass; she was in the enclosure with the animal. And the quickness in her pulse had nothing to do with wanting to run away.
He kicked one boot up onto his other knee, and brought his glass to his lips, gaze trained on the fire. The new log caught with a rush and a pop, fresh orange flames leaping. Their glimmer shined on the whiskey in his glass, and on the smooth leather of the holsters on each of his shoulders, black leather on the black cotton of his shirt.
Rose didn’t speak. She had the distinct sense that he couldn’t talk at the moment; not to have a polite conversation, anyway.
He sipped his drink, and after a few long moments she saw the line of his shoulders relax; saw him sink down deeper in his chair. His fingers drummed on his glass, and his nostrils flared as he let out a deep breath that had the firelight leaping down the holster straps on his chest.
Then he turned to her. With eyes that weren’t honey, or burnt sugar, no, not now. Gold eyes. Lion’s eyes. The firelight licked over them, carved dark shadows beneath his cheekbones. His hair was already starting to dry, faintly curling at the ends, framing his sharp jaw.
“Are you alright?” she asked, softly.
He dipped his head, a nod of thanks. “Yes. It just takes me a moment – after.”
After what? She didn’t ask.
He set his drink aside. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”
All of her foster parents over the years had smoked, and none of them had ever asked if she minded. “No.”
Another nod, and he produced a miraculously dry pack and lighter from his pocket. When the cigarette was on his lip, and he clicked the lighter to life, she saw that his hands, bathed fully in the light of the fire, were not clean. Dark smudges marred the fingers and palms.
He noticed, too, pausing a moment, staring at his own long, elegant fingers. Then he lit the cig and pocketed the lighter.
She watched him take his first drag, the way his cheeks sucked in, the way his jaw flexed when he exhaled. She’d never wanted to sit and watch anyone smoke before. It had always repelled her, in fact. But with Beck, she found herself transfixed – so much so she missed the question he asked her.
“I’m sorry?”
“How far along in the book are you?” He gestured toward it with the end of his cigarette.
She glanced down at the leather cover to keep from staring at him any longer. Smoothed her hand across the cover – and returned to the moors. To Jane and her grief. The lightning-struck chestnut tree and the wife in the attic.
“I love it,” she said, “even if it’s making me sad right now.”
He chuckled, and she glanced up again. He had the rim of his glass to his lips, eyes dancing above it. “I find that’s always true of the best books. The sweet parts are always sweeter if it’s hurt a little along the way.”
She smiled, and knew it was wistful. “That’s true of books, anyway.”
He nodded and lowered his glass, growing somber. “It’s certainly more palatable in a book. It can be difficult to be hopeful about real life.”
“Yeah.”
“But.” He sucked down the last of his cigarette and flicked it expertly into the fire. Dropped his boot to the carpet and sat forward, elbows on his knee. He was looser, now, his body relaxed, and it was a kindly sort of earnestness pouring off of him now, and not whatever he’d brought into the room with him at first. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still hope, Rose. At least a little, even if it’s only for small things.”
Simple words, but they carried weight. Dropped heavily into the space that separated them.
She nodded.
The fire crackled.
Beck sat back, less earnest. Inquisitive, she decided, brows lifting. “What do you think of Rochester?”
She hesitated, tongue pressed to her lip, wanting to phrase it in a way that would sound meaningful, and not young and hormonal.
He took her hesitation for answer, though, chuckling. “I can see you don’t dislike him.”
“Well. No.”
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s just the fire.”
He smiled – wider than usual, wide like right after he’d killed Tabitha. When he’d cut her loose from the cabinet and first found her. Teeth glinting in the