Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(60)

He twists up his face and throws his head back, so that his throat is a mile long. “I just don’t think it’s true. ”

“Simon—” I pull him in closer, I wish he’d open his eyes. “— of course it’s true. All you’ve asked of me so far is kindness.”

He groans and buries his grimace in my shoulder. His arms are still around my neck. His tail is still undulating through my fingers. Is it wrong that I like him like this? Afraid, insecure, worried—but turning to me for comfort? Letting me hold on?

I rub my nose into the hair at his nape, still short from that haircut in Las Vegas.

His voice is muffled: “What if I asked you to be less kind to me?”

“What?” I draw my head back. “Why? ”

He’s slumped into me, his forehead on my shoulder, whispering harshly into the space between our chests: “Because it makes me feel mental. It’s like being touched too lightly. Makes me feel like I’m being turned inside out.

Like I need to get away.”

I pull his tail through my hand, firmly. I press my other hand into his back.

I push my nose hard into his ear. “No,” I say. “I won’t do that.”

Simon shrinks from me. His hands fall to his lap. He looks anguished.

I loop his tail around my hand again and hold him everywhere tight. “No,”

I repeat. “I can touch you less gently, but I won’t love you less kindly.”

He exhales roughly, and his head sinks onto my shoulder again, his back still tense, his hands still clenched on his thighs.

I brace myself for whatever he’s going to say next …

I’m more used to guessing what Simon is thinking—what he’s feeling, what he wants. Bracing myself against his silence, wave after wave of it.

That’s how our relationship has worked so far.

But the last thirty-six hours have been different. He promised to try, and he is trying, and he keeps taking me off guard. First I don’t know what’s coming, and then I don’t know what’s hit me … And I can’t believe how much better it is. Bracing for something instead of more nothing.

I wait for it …

After a few minutes, Simon’s body relaxes against mine. His wings settle on his back. His breathing slows. He turns his head away from me, laying his cheek on my shoulder. “I can’t believe you pulled my tail…” he says, wearily, and like he genuinely can’t believe it.

I relax, too. “Oh, like you wouldn’t be yanking me around by the tail if I had one.”

Simon laughs, just with his breath. “If you’d had a tail back at Watford, you’d have woken up every morning with it tied to your bed.”

I’m still massaging his tail, inch by inch. My hand is at the base now, and I let it slide through my palm all the way to its spaded tip. “I’ve got to pull your tail while you still have one.”

Simon lifts his head to face me. He looks in my eyes for a second. It’s measuring, observant. Possibly resigned. Then his gaze drops to my mouth.

He moves towards me slowly, and I part my lips to get ready for him.

He kisses me.

I kiss him back, squarely. Firmly. Matter-of-factly. You’re all I want, I think. And you can have everything you need.

I’m not sure what he’s telling me with this kiss. I pretend it’s Yes and Yes and Be kind to me.

SIMON

Fine, you fucker. Have me. Just have me.

Do your worst, you stubborn twat.

Be the death of me.

You’ll be the death of me.





33

SIMON

Baz pulls away first.

He almost never pulls away first.

He sits back against the wall. “Hey,” he says, like he’s just thought of something. He has my tail twined around his arm again from wrist to elbow.

He lets go, and it slithers away. (I can control the tail if I think about it, but it mostly moves of its own accord.)

I rest on my heels. We should sit like this more often—I like the way Baz looks, looking up at me.

He wipes his mouth with his butterfly-blue cuff. “Everyone at the meeting tonight will know who you are,” he says.

“Right. That’s the problem.”

“And everyone knows you’ve lost your magic.”

“Apparently they don’t believe it,” I say, thinking of Lady Salisbury.

“So we lean into that.”

“Lean into what?” My knees are killing me. Maybe we shouldn’t make a habit of this. I try to shift onto the floor, but there’s nowhere to put my legs.

“Here.” Baz pulls my left leg over his and then does the same with my right. As soon as he has them settled, he puts his arms around my waist again.

It’s fuckin’ cosy is what it is. “Lean into your whole thing,” he says. “‘ I was never the Chosen One, I’ve lost my magic, I’ve heard that you can help…’”

“Oh,” I say. And then, “Oh. ”

“Right?” Baz says, squeezing me. “Right? ”

“Pretend I’m looking for a saviour.”

“Because why wouldn’t you be! You’d be such a score for this Smith-Richards. If the old Chosen One thinks he’s the Chosen One…”