King Among the Dead - Lauren Gilley Page 0,59
do, but don’t do it for my sake, because that isn’t what I want at all.”
His eyes widened. He walked back toward her – slow, stalking steps, cautious, like she was the wild thing, the danger that needed tip-toeing around. When he reached her, he took her face gently in both hands – but she knew already that the moment of heat had passed. This was careful, and caring, but it wasn’t the desperate grip of moments ago. This was how he always touched her, with the utmost respect, as if she were a flower whose petals he was afraid to crush.
He kissed the top of her head, and lingered there, his breath warm against her scalp as he sighed. “You’re a marvel,” he said, voice soft, wondrous. Another kiss. “Happy birthday, my sweet thing.”
Then he pulled away and left the room.
Rose stood staring at the fire, listening to his footfalls quickly recede; he walked so soft and sure-footed in his socks that he could only be heard when he was very close – and he wasn’t that anymore, was he? Fleeing again. Denying her – denying himself.
What was he afraid of? she wondered. She’d seen him kill; had fired guns with his arms around her as he helped her aim, in his secret basement training center. She knew that he used his dead brother’s name on his credit cards, and that he used to kill for the mob, and that he killed, still, several times a week. He’d just given her a set of knives for her birthday.
She’d seen him unmasked tonight, in those quivering moments when she’d thought – prayed – that he would kiss her. She’d seen beyond the veils and shields and into the animal heart of him. He had to know that; had to know what he’d revealed to her. Did he think something even worse remained? Still hidden somehow?
How could he think that he would hurt her?
She blew out a breath, and went back to the table. Each knife had its own worked leather sheath, butter-soft and gleaming. She sheathed them all, one-by-one, and began to plan where she’d wear them. She wondered…and then she spotted it, laid out at the top of the velvet under-cloth: a mass of stacked straps: holsters.
She grinned, despite the persistent ache in her chest. He’d thought of everything.
SIXTEEN
A week later, Beck came to the library one evening while she was reading, came to stand in front of her chair, bristling with unspoken energy, and said, in a deceptively mild voice: “Would you like to go out tonight?”
Then she lifted her head and saw his boots: the heavy black ones that laced up to mid-calf. His hunting boots.
She met his gaze, sparkling and stark with his hair pulled back in a tight knot at his nape. His face seemed paler against the black of his turtleneck, save the two burning spots of color high on his cheeks.
“Really?” she asked, pulse already leaping.
His smile was tiny, but full of promise. “Really.”
She scrambled to her feet.
“Wear something dark,” he called after her. “And boots.” He didn’t tell her to bring her knives, because he knew he didn’t have to.
She nearly fell going up the stairs at a run. Dressed in her darkest jeans and sweater, her brown boots – wishing, a little, that they were black, like his. She thought of his little bun, and braided her hair back quickly, but tightly, so it was out of her face.
She took greater care with her knives, securing them the way she’d been practicing: in her holsters at back, and hip, and under her arms. Strapped one to her forearm, and tucked the little one down into her boot.
He was waiting for her in the foyer downstairs, wearing his flaring back coat – holding another length of black leather folded over one arm.
She paused on the final step, still holding the bannister, and watched as he unfolded it and held it out for inspection: it was another coat, just like his. With a high collar, and a flared hem, and a hood. A hunting coat. A killing coat.
“Is that for me?” she asked, breathless.
He gave her another tiny, electrifying grin. “Who else?” And held it up a little higher, encouraging.
She turned and slid her arms through the sleeves; let him settle it on her shoulders – and then place his hands there, heavy and grounding save for the way she could feel the fine tremors of anticipation moving through him.
“Are you ready for