Midnight Jewel

by Richelle Mead

  And in that agonizing moment, I realized what was wrong. While I’d been fantasizing and wrestling with the throes of lust, he’d had a very different reaction. The opposite, really. That’s why he kept averting his eyes. Why he wouldn’t touch my leg. Why he hadn’t wanted me here at all. I could feel heat flooding my face.

  I sprang to my feet. “I’ll leave.”

  I caught only a glimpse of his astonishment before I turned toward the door. I was reaching out to open it when he put his hand on my shoulder. My whole body froze with the realization that he was standing right behind me.

  “Mirabel, what’s the matter with you?”

  “I figured you’d just act like it hadn’t happened. That’s how you are.” I kept my words calm and precise. “I didn’t expect you to be mad about it.”

  “Mad about what?” But something in his voice was just off enough to tell me he knew exactly what I meant.

  “Us kissing.”

  “Let’s be clear about one thing: You kissed me.”

  “I’m not in the mood for this game.” I put my hand on the knob. His grip on my shoulder tightened. I held my breath.

  “I’m not mad. It was quick thinking. A good distraction.”

  I closed my eyes. “Then why won’t you look at me? Why have you been trying to get rid of me?”

  Silence. Long silence. He shifted, so close now that our bodies touched. His hand dropped, resting lightly on the curve of my waist. “Because it was . . . because you are . . . ugh. You’re a distraction too.”

  As I opened my eyes, I realized I’d been wrong about his reaction to the kiss. Slowly, I turned, unable to avoid brushing against his body as I faced him. Our eyes locked, and the tension ramped up in what little space was left between us. Some of it was the usual exasperated kind, but the rest . . . was something more. Electric, I supposed. Electric but underscored with vulnerability.

  “I heard something else Silas said to you. A question. That you didn’t answer.” He went very still, so I pushed forward. “Do you want to sleep with me?” When he made no response, I added, “You told me you’d answer three questions.”

  “You’ve already gone past three.”

  I didn’t rise to the baiting. “Grant. Answer me.”

  “Silas would kill me.” His eyes drifted away again. “And if you—that is—I can’t risk messing this up. I told you, I need this case. And I need you on it.”

  His body language revealed a lot more than his evasive words did. He was nervous. Nervous because he hadn’t read me yet? Because he couldn’t read me?

  “You’re still not answering! All you’ve said was why you can’t. Not if you want to.”

  When he turned his gaze back on me, it was stormy, full of conflict and frustration. He leaned closer. “What do you think, Mirabel? Look at you! You’re . . . you. And I’m me. And I’m human.”

  I went liquid inside. The tension was almost smothering now. It hummed between our bodies. It pulled at us, like a thousand fine, invisible threads. I placed my palm on his chest. “And you don’t think I am?” I asked.

  I slid my hand upward, and he stopped it with his own. “I think you have other things to worry about.” He paused. “And I’m pretty sure you’ve actually said you don’t like me.”

  When I tried to move my hand again, he pushed it away, pinning it against the door. And as he held it—and me—there, he banished the last fleeting space between us. There was nowhere else for me to go and nowhere I wanted to go. Something was coiled up in my chest, something tight and ready to burst.

  “I don’t need to like you,” I said.

  His fingers tightened on my wrist, and our mouths met, frantic and greedy. His other hand returned to my waist, and then a last attempt at caution tugged at him.

  “Aiana will kill me too,” he said. It wasn’t clear who he was making the argument to.

  “You think I’m a distraction? You’ve been a bigger distraction. Since the day I saw you on that ship.” I barely recognized my own voice. “I don’t need to marry you, Grant, but I need to get you out of my system. I need to get this done with so that I can worry about other things.”

  He held me—us—there, suspended on a razor’s edge as he searched my face for some answer. At last, he must have found it, because he said, “There’s no way I’ve been the bigger distraction.”

  And then his lips were on my neck, my cheek, and then back to my mouth, as hungry and demanding as before. We stumbled away from the door and ended up on the floor again, his body over mine. My hands slid under his shirt, and I didn’t even realize I was digging my nails into his back until he gave a small grunt of surprise and pulled away. The weight of his gaze pinned me as much as the rest of him. I recognized the familiar, obsessive look. Only this time, it wasn’t a clue he wanted to unravel.

  His hands and lips moved almost everywhere on me, and in the places they didn’t, I guided him there myself. I felt drunk, intoxicated both by what he did to me and the effect I had on him. This was Grant stripped of his cynicism and careful calculation. This was Grant unrestrained, his vigilant nature temporarily blinded by instinct.

  I fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, and he took over, shrugging his way out of it. He was much more adept at undoing my buttons, not even needing to look at them as he trailed feather-light kisses along my neck. When he finished with my buttons, he spread the shirt open, his expression eager and expectant. What he found made him pause. “Really?” he asked.

  The shirt’s thin material showed a little more of me than I liked in certain lighting, so tonight I’d taken the time to put on a jump, a flexible quilted corset with no boning but plenty of laces.

  Despite my ragged breathing, I managed to ask, “Would it help if I just gave you my knife?”

  He shot me a dry look at that and then started in on the laces with his clever fingers, working his way down as easily as he had with the buttons. Each time he freed a cluster of laces, he’d push the jump open a little more and then continue unwrapping me. I trembled at the newness of it all, of baring myself like this. But that anxiety was fleeting, quashed by an overwhelming eagerness to seize what would happen next.

  He’d almost reached the jump’s bottom edge, near the waist of my pants, and I ran my hands over his arms, tracing the shape of his muscles. My fingers grazed a spot just below his shoulder where the skin felt rough and uneven. The patch was round, about the size of my fist, and when I lifted my head for a better look, I saw that it was scar, deeper and clearly more traumatic than the little ones I’d already noticed scattered over him.

  “What is this?” I murmured, as he pulled out the last lace and tossed the jump across the room.

  “Nothing.” His eyes raked me over. “An old burn.”

  He brought his lips to a spot just above the center of my breastbone. I exhaled and started to close my eyes . . . but I couldn’t shake that scar from my mind. A wave of emotion, oddly compassionate in such a heated moment, swept me. That wound—that burn—had been no trifle. What a thing to endure, I thought. It hit me in a way I didn’t expect, and for a few heartbeats, my world centered on him rather than what I was doing with him.

  I slid my hand to his face and lifted it, cupping his cheek as I looked up into his eyes. “It must have hurt so much,” I said softly. “But you pretended it didn’t. I know you.”

  He stopped and stared, looking so consumed by the moment—by me—that I wasn’t even sure if he’d heard me. Then, he blinked a few times, like he was trying to wake from a dream, and I could see that razor-sharp mind forcing its way back though the haze of desire. He studied my face with a startling intensity that first seemed incredulous, then confused. A parade of other emotions soon followed: frustration, anger, and—incredibly—fear. They disappeared in a flash, his expression finally settling on coldness. He jerked away and sat back on his heels. For a few stunned moments, the on
ly sound in the room was our labored breathing.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I reached toward him again, and he jumped to his feet.

  “This is. It’s done. You need to go.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow, too baffled to feel self-conscious about being sprawled half naked on his floor. “I . . . what? Why?”

  “Because it’s late.” Grant snatched up his shirt and stalked to the other side of the room.

  The heat of passion still burned in me, but it was starting to flicker as something icy and terrible seeped into me. I stood as well. “Grant, I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s late,” he repeated, in a harsh tone I knew well. He was closed off again. Back in control. Invulnerable—or at least acting like he was. I watched in bewilderment as he pulled the shirt on and smoothed back his hair, still facing away from me.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” I insisted.

  “This was a terrible— Argh.” He’d started to turn, saw me, and looked away. “Can you put your shirt back on?”

  I stayed as I was. “Are you actually throwing me out?”

  “I’m doing you a favor. And I’ll walk you home. Are you covered yet?”

  “No.” Anger began crowding out the remaining embers of desire. “You threw everything over there.”

  He stalked over to where my shirt and the jump had ended up. Still averting his eyes, he tossed them back in my direction. The laces sat in a tangled pile at my feet. There was no way the jump would be reassembled anytime soon, and I shoved it into one of the cloak’s large pockets. I put just the shirt back on and buttoned it with shaking hands.

  “Tell me what’s going on! Did asking about the scar bother you that much?”

  “Are you decent yet?”

  I glanced in the mirror. Hairpins snarled my hair, creating a tangled mess that I struggled to get the wig over. I looked like . . . like a girl who’d just let a man have his way with her on the floor. Except he hadn’t.

  “Decent enough, considering what just happened.”

  He dared a tentative glance over his shoulder and turned around fully when he saw me dressed. “Hopefully it was enough to get whatever you needed out of your system. If not, I’m sure there are plenty of other men who’d help you.”

  “Is that what you think of me? That I’d just fall into bed with anyone?” I demanded.

  “No. But you made it pretty clear what you wanted. And it’s not that hard to find.”

  “Well, I wanted it with you!” He winced, though the rest of his expression remained unchanged. “For a moment there, you almost seemed like a—I don’t know. Like a normal person. With feelings. Who connects to other people. But it doesn’t matter. I’m the fool here. I can’t judge you for your character when I just brazenly offered myself up.”

  He groaned as I stormed to the door. “Mirabel, no. It’s not like that at all.”

  I spun around and met his eyes unblinkingly. “Then help me out, Grant. Tell me what it’s like.”

  He seemed to sag a little. “It’s hard to . . . Look, I just can’t explain it right now. I don’t have the words.”

  “I guess there’s a first time for everything.” I yanked the door open.

  “Mirabel—”

  “Don’t come with me. I don’t want anything from you anymore.”

  I slammed the door and didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER 17

  I STOOD OUTSIDE THE DOOR FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS, taking deep breaths of the crisp night air. Fury and heartache warred with the ache of unfulfilled lust. Even in the cold, I still felt flushed remembering what we’d done. If Grant had suddenly burst out and tried to take me back to bed, I might very well have let him—and that made me madder.

  What had happened?

  I turned that question over and over in my brain as I descended the stairs, trying to understand. Had it all fallen apart because I’d remarked on the scar? I knew he was guarded when it came to discussing his past, but had one small inquiry irritated him enough to halt something he very obviously wanted? Or had I just killed the mood by asking? How would I know? I had no idea what I was doing. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe I’d been a disappointment.

  I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other. Tears driven by any number of emotions brimmed in my eyes, and the colorful nightlife that usually fascinated me suddenly seemed grating. I took a roundabout path through the lively entertainment district, choosing quieter streets that still kept the safety of public areas in sight.

  I wanted my bed. I wanted to close my eyes to darkness and forget this night. I wanted to forget that I’d just tried to give myself to a man—and that I’d been lacking. I’d thought I was bold and alluring, but I was only a girl playing at being a woman.

  A cry from the darkness jerked me from my maudlin thoughts. I stopped and spun around. The sound had come from an alley between large tenement buildings, maybe two blocks away. It was where the streets spread out from downtown and turned more residential, with fewer lights and no meandering crowds. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone over there at all. The shadows filling the alley gave up no secrets, and I wavered on whether to turn off to investigate. It would mean moving farther away from the safety of the public areas. The cry—a woman’s—sounded again. I remembered the stories I’d heard of the militia’s haphazard protection of the city. How many out there were helpless? How many felt as though no one could save them?

  I made my decision.

  I slinked toward the alley and used the shadows for my own cover. When I reached the entrance, a dull streetlamp cast flickering light upon a group of men fighting. Closer scrutiny revealed that three of them had ganged up on one. Unfair odds. And I didn’t see a woman anywhere.

  After a little more assessment, I realized that the single man was actually doing an amazing job at holding off the others. Maybe it was more of a fair fight than it seemed. But it triggered too many memories of the past, of gangs attacking those they outnumbered, to rob or do worse. That type of crime had occurred nightly in Osfro and was what Lonzo and I used to seek out. I started to charge forward with my knife until I realized how truly pathetic it was. Searching around, I spied a pile of discarded wood and other debris lying nearby. I grabbed a board, about the length of my forearm, that looked like it hadn’t rotted yet.

  The lone fighter was in a standoff with two of the men while the third attempted to come in from the side. I sneaked up behind him and slammed the board into his back as hard as I could, knocking him to his knees. The unexpected attack made his two companions falter, giving their victim an opportunity to punch one in the jaw. Before any retaliation could take place, the lone man deftly rolled across the ground and sprang neatly to his feet on the alley’s far side. As he did, he scooped up a sword lying nearby and pointed it at the others.

  The man I’d hit staggered upright and turned toward me, but the swordsman moved faster. He leapt over to us, jabbing his blade into my assailant’s shoulder with practiced ease. The man screamed and fell again. Without pause, the sword-wielder moved on to his next adversary, knocking that one down with a blow to the head.

  “Want to try your luck?” he asked the third.

  That man spoke boldly but backed away nonetheless. “Your crew cheated our boss! Your man had no right to swipe that shipment out from under us.”

  “Your boss has cheated us plenty of times,” the swordsman replied amiably. “And if he had any honor, he wouldn’t have ordered an attack like this. Now get out of here while we’re all still friends.” He glanced between his former assailants. They’d all managed to stand again but hadn’t retreated. “And we are all still friends, right?” That amiable voice had an edge to it, as sharp and deadly as the sword he held.

  “Yeah, we’re still friends,” said the one I’d hit, not sounding friendly at all. “Come on.” He beckoned to his comrades, and they slowly walked
away, but not without several backward glances.

  When they’d disappeared from sight, the swordsman said, “It’s safe now.”

  I thought he was talking to me until I heard a stirring behind another pile of trash. A woman rose, holding a small child wrapped in blankets to her. “Thank you, Tom. Thank you so much.”

  “Nothing to thank me for. I thought Abernathy was better than this, but even I’m wrong sometimes. I’ll make sure there’s no repeat. Let me take you home.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t trouble you anymore. It’s just over there. Thank you again. The blessings of the Six upon you.”

  The woman scurried away, and the man didn’t take his eyes off of her until she entered a building down the street. Then he turned to me.

  He wore a mask, but it wasn’t meant for the elements, like mine. It was one of the ornamental ones, much as I’d seen among the earlier revelers. “And now, my guardian angel, I need to thank you.” He sheathed his sword and bowed before me, sweeping his cloak away with a great flourish. “Tom Shortsleeves, at your service.”

  “It . . . it’s nice to meet you, Mister Shortsleeves,” I replied, using the Belsian accent again. Even with his sword away, I kept my distance.

  He straightened up and tilted his head inquisitively. “You haven’t heard of me?”

  “No.” Sensing this disappointed him, I added, “But I’ve only just arrived in the city.”

  “Ah. Then you are forgiven, Miss . . . ?” He shrugged when I didn’t answer. “No matter. Angels don’t need names to do their deeds. Only brave hearts.”

  The mask. The sword. The theatrics. “Are you . . .” I paused, grappling with a polite way to phrase my next question. “Are you one of the men trying to be a pirate?”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “My dear, I am the one they are all trying to be.”

  “Well, like I said, I just got here. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

  And one thing I didn’t know was if I was in danger. Grant had explained the pirates’ bizarre role as law enforcement, but I hadn’t really believed it. Yet . . . this pirate—or whatever he was—had just saved a mother and child before my eyes.