Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(14)

“You should try yarrow root,” he tells me. “Works great for headaches.”

“Sure,” I say, “I will.”

Our eyes meet, and he smiles and sets the book on the counter. I feel like I’m going to be sick. He pulls coins from his pocket and bounces them in his palm while he waits for me to give him a total. I won’t be able to reach him from where I’m standing. I’ll have to wrap his book and walk around the counter to give it to him, to embrace him. To kiss him.

It’s going to take some effort to end his life.

My hands shake as I pull out the paper wrapping and slide the book toward me. Then all the air whooshes out of my lungs. The title is Dreams and Their Meanings. A little half sob escapes my lips and the man looks at me, alarmed. “Sorry,” I say as I take his coins.

He pats my hand and then picks up his book. “Yarrow root,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves the shop.

My whole body starts to shake. The sun is high in the sky, morning is gone. Was this Gopal’s twisted idea of a punishment? To give me a target that never materializes? To make me suffer all day for nothing?

“Marinda?” Deven’s hand drops on my shoulder, and I yank away so fast that the coins in my palm go flying, skittering across the floor like startled insects.

A crease appears between his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

I ignore the question and kneel to gather the coins, but I’m trembling so much that they keep slipping through my fingers.

“Here,” Deven says. “Give them to me.”

I drop the money into his open palm and climb to my feet. Deven’s gaze roams over my face, searching, questioning. I turn away from him so he won’t find whatever he’s looking for. He goes around the counter and pulls the wooden box from where it’s stashed on a low shelf. As he deposits the coins inside, I take deep breaths and try to will my heart to slow and my hands to still.

It’s just another of Gopal’s games, I remind myself. Only dangerous if I don’t understand the rules. But my body isn’t so easily convinced. Chills race over my skin and heat licks at the back of my neck until I’m not sure if I’m hot or cold.

“Marinda?” The tender note in Deven’s voice rips something loose inside of me, and my carefully cultivated self-control slides from my shoulders like a shawl. I risk a glance at him, and his eyes are soft and liquid. He reaches for my wrists, but I think of the scars hiding under my bracelets and yank my hands back. Deven’s eyebrows rise a fraction, but instead of retreating, he steps toward me and pulls me to his chest.

Every muscle in my body freezes.

I start to pull away, but Deven doesn’t let go. His arms—both of them—are wrapped tightly around me, and I’ve never been held like this. Not ever. Slowly my tension unwinds, and against my better judgment, I let myself relax against him. I can feel his heartbeat, fast and strong, thudding against my cheek.

Japa emerges from the storeroom. “What happened?” he asks.

Deven waves him away. “She’ll be okay,” he says, and I hope he’s right. I rest my head on his shoulder and he strokes my hair until I stop trembling.

The pressure in my chest recedes a little, and suddenly I feel like I need to put space between us. I pull away and busy myself smoothing out invisible wrinkles in my sari.

“What did that man say to you?” Deven asks.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. But of course that’s what it would have looked like—that the customer said something so awful to me that I melted into a puddle of nerves. “It’s not—he didn’t—it wasn’t like that. He was kind.” Even to my own ears I sound ridiculous.

Deven doesn’t speak right away. It’s one of the things I like about him, how he takes his time to respond, how he treats the conversation carefully, like it matters. “The kindness upset you?” he asks finally.

“A little.”

“But why?”

It’s a loaded question and I’m not sure I can answer. I’m not sure I want to. I finger the edge of my sleeve while I think about it. “I don’t deserve it,” I tell him, and it’s maybe the most honest thing I’ve ever said.

He brushes a lock of hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “How could you possibly think that?”

If he knew me at all, he would know that there is no other reasonable conclusion to draw. Of all people, I don’t deserve kindness. This conversation has gone too far and now I feel exposed. I don’t even know Deven, not really. I shake my head. “Can we talk about something else?”

Disappointment flits over his face, but he erases it almost instantly. “Sure. What would you like to talk about?”

I shrug. I’m no good at conversation and my mind is busy trying to puzzle out what kind of game Gopal is playing.

“You could tell me something about yourself,” Deven says.

“There’s nothing to tell.” What I really mean is that there is nothing I could tell him that wouldn’t make him hate me.

He sighs. “If you’re going to be difficult, then I’ll go first. I love wood carving.”

“Wood carving?” It’s the last thing I was expecting him to say. It’s something that belongs in a real conversation, and I’m not good at those.

“Yup,” he says. “I’d live with a knife in my hand if I could.”