The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(33)

I touch the scar that hooks under his right eye. His skin is warm and soft.

“I’d like to keep that,” he says.

I pull back quickly. “It’s pretty distinguishable.”

“It’s been with me since I was born. Well, according to my mother. It was part of my natural template. It reminds me of her.”

“All right.”

“I like my skin color. The darker the better.”

“Anything else?”

“Longer hair, maybe?” he says.

“I’ll give you little girl ringlets.”

The edges of his mouth curve into a reluctant smile.

I wink at him and coat him with bei powder. The white flakes cover him like sugar dust on a molasses tart. I smooth them across his limbs with a brush. He watches my every move, his stare intense and like he’s trying to listen to my thoughts. My hands shake with nerves.

I close my eyes. The arcana awaken easily, rising to meet my call. A rush of heat lifts from my stomach, and it feels like it’s both my gifts and something else. My blood races through me. Beads of sweat dot my forehead. The veins in my body pulse, and my heart picks up its rhythm. I pretend that I’m home in the safety of one of the Aura lesson rooms. I pretend that all that’s happened never came to pass. I pretend that Rémy is a regular customer here to see me for a routine session. His form appears in the darkness of my mind.

I darken his hair to the color of midnight. I lengthen the tight curls into long coils, then knit them together like soft yarn until they fall over his shoulder in a thousand tiny ropes. I deepen the brown of his skin color.

I stare down at him and a smile erupts through me. I can still see him inside this new outer form. I didn’t want to lose all the things I loved about the way he’d chosen to look.

He bites his bottom lip.

“I’m finished. Need tea for the pain?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he replies.

“But you’re scowling.”

“That’s not the reason.” He sits up. The heavy sound of his breathing extends between us. My heart flutters like a trapped bird. He smells like ink, leather, and me. His breath hits my shoulder, sending a tickle down my spine. Thoughts of him jump around in my head like bubbles in a champagne glass: his hands around my waist, his nose buried in my hair, the feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth.

I shudder.

“What’s wrong?” His gaze pins me in place, then slides around me, hugging all my edges. His eyes almost swallow me whole, moving from my face, down the lines of my neck, and slope of my chest where the mirror sits, awaiting all his questions.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

“Use the mirror,” he says.

I press a hand to my chest. “I already trust you.”

“Just do it, so you’ll never ever question it.” He runs a finger along the path of the chain on my neck, his finger pressing into my skin, leaving behind a trail of heat.

I pull the mirror from beneath my dress, then prick my finger with a pushpin from my beauty caisse. He watches as I rub the blood in the mirror’s handle. The grooves soak with it. The liquid climbs to the top, bathes the roses, and the glass fills with an image of his face—kind eyes, a perpetual half-smile, and a creased and serious brow. I can feel him—his strength and loyalty, his selflessness and protective instinct, his affection for me. The overwhelming power of it surges through me.

“What do you see?” he asks, searching my face.

“I don’t want you to go.” My voice breaks. Silent and unruly tears breach the fragile wall holding them in.

I wipe them away.

He looks at me, then reaches his fingers to my face, his hands heavy yet gentle. I don’t flinch. I don’t move away from his touch. His thumb catches a tear beside my mouth. He doesn’t stop wiping until they stop falling. The warmth of his hand seeps into my skin.

“You make me feel safe,” I say.

He leans forward. “And you make me feel the same.” His whisper gets tangled in my hair. “But safety is never permanent. I suppose like beauty, it’s unpredictable.”

More tears well in my eyes. Different ones this time. I don’t know what this wild feeling is. I want him to touch me again. I want him to kiss me. I want to know what that feels like. A seam inside me starts to rip, taunting me with all that could happen if I let him in.

“I have to go,” he whispers. “You will be fine without—”

I touch his face, then press my mouth to his, shoving those words back in, and knowing that we can’t be together, knowing he has to leave, knowing that our joke about being married was just that—a joke. Still, a blush blooms in my cheeks.

He freezes.

I pull back. My heart does a nervous tumble. His eyes gaze into mine.

A pocket of silence encapsulates us, the edges of it expanding and stretching throughout the room.

Neither of us moves.

I search his eyes for the answer to the kiss. Would he ever want me in that way? Have I crossed a line with him? Did I misinterpret what I saw in the mirror? Am I allowed to have these feelings?

I open my mouth to try to say something. The words I’m sorry tumble out.

He runs his hand along the curve of my neck and cups my face in his hands. I sink into him. He kisses me gentle and soft. All the worries about whether he wants me drift off like post-balloons.