“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his voice a sleepy rumble. “And I’m glad Ash is gone. He was just in here trying to force-feed me oatmeal.”
Ash had been in there that morning, and the sunlight coming through the window was the mellow light of late afternoon. Kami did not mention that. It had been a while since Jared’s eyes were clear and since he had talked to her rather than muttering, believing he was still trapped in the priest hole.
“Such an ungrateful brother,” Kami murmured back, and smiled at him. “Oatmeal’s good for you.”
“I don’t like it,” Jared said crankily, and rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. “What are you reading?”
“It’s called The Deadly Chandelier,” Kami said promptly and with satisfaction. “It’s very good. What with everything that’s been going on, I’ve really fallen behind on my reading. Want me to read it to you?”
“It’s called The Deadly Chandelier?” Jared repeated in a skeptical tone. “Sounds like if you do I will never recover. Read to me one of the fine works of Mr. Charles Dickens.”
“Shan’t,” said Kami. “Unless you want The Mystery of Edwin Drood, which Charles Dickens left unfinished when he died, thus accidentally creating the most epic mystery novel of all time. I’m warning you in advance, I will be making up a solution to the mystery of my own.”
“Sounds good,” Jared murmured, sounding half asleep. His lashes skimmed his cheekbones, but he opened them with an effort and reached out, this time with purpose though with no hope of actually getting to her, in her direction. “Will you,” Jared began, and quietly, as if trying not to ask too much, “come here?”
“Sure,” said Kami.
She felt a little awkward about it, but she didn’t care: she scrambled out of the chair and sat on the bed, feeling it dip beneath her weight and the faint rasp of her flouncy cotton dress against the linen. Jared angled toward her slightly in the bed.
“You match the flowers,” said Jared.
There was a small table at the end of Jared’s bed with an earthenware vase on it, filled with wild pansies. Kami had always thought of them as love-lies-bleeding, but when Martha Wright had been arranging them she had called them call-me-to-you.
“They’re from Martha,” Kami told him, feeling a little embarrassed lest he thought she’d brought him flowers. Though she supposed she could have: maybe it would have been all right. “Your constant admirer.”
“Very gratifying,” Jared remarked. “But where are the posies from all my other callers?”
Kami laughed down at him and Jared smiled at her. He was touching her skirt, Kami saw with faint surprise, tracing the swirling yellow pattern on the dark purple material. His head was bowed, oddly intent, and all she could see was the fall of his lashes and the curve of his upper lip.
“I like the way you dress,” he said quietly. “You’re always—you look different from all the other girls.”
“Thank you,” Kami replied, uncertain, though she wanted Jared to like how she looked.
“What?” Jared asked. He was still lying down, but his eyes were open, more awake and concerned. “What did I say wrong?”
“Nothing. Go to sleep.”
Kami aimed a punch at his pillow, which was meant to be fluffing it, but instead looked like random pillow violence. Jared had been tortured and buried alive. This did not matter.
“No,” said Jared. “Don’t—don’t go. Tell me.”
She hadn’t even realized that she was edging away across the bed.
“Of course I look different from all the other girls,” she said at last. “Anyone can see that. Half the town has suggested I date Raj Singh. Who’s thirteen.”
Because being part Japanese was the same thing as being Indian, and meant they didn’t belong with anyone else.
It was something Kami noticed, that she couldn’t help but notice: that she looked different from girls in pictures, girls on magazine covers, different from Angela and Holly and her own mother, who were all thin and pale and beautiful in what sometimes seemed to be the only right way. She noticed but tried not to mind, and didn’t mostly—just because she noticed didn’t mean she wanted to be someone else—but then she had met Jared and he hadn’t ever seemed to want to touch her. It was hard sometimes, not to be self-conscious.
“Raj Singh can keep his hands off sexy older women,” Jared said with conviction.
Kami smiled. “It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s not about vanity or anything. Forget it.”
“I’m awful at school,” said Jared.
“You just need to apply yourself more,” Kami told him sternly. “And speaking of applying, I don’t see how that applies to anything.”
“I hate school because I always want to be doing something more exciting than just sitting and staring at something or listening to someone,” Jared continued. “But it’s different with you. You do look different from all the other girls: I can always see you’re doing something, thinking of something, laughing at something, or dreaming of something.”
Kami found herself smiling even though she was blushing, and making a joke to cut him off even though she didn’t want him to stop. “Are you saying that I’m, uh, interesting looking?”
“Yeah, something like that,” said Jared, and she glanced over and saw the curl of his small smile. “Some synonyms come to mind. Fascinating. Captivating. I want to look at you all the time.”
Kami was at this point too embarrassed to look at him at all. Embarrassed but pleased. She rolled over to where he lay, head on his arm and eyes half closed, and hid her face down by the pillow, her smile almost pressed against his throat. She had not forgotten anything about him, but memory had paled and thus lost the precise vividness of how intense he could be, how what he felt still seemed to go right through her.
Kami had felt cautious about it at first, about him in her real life, how out of control it could be, but now it made her happy. She could not control how she felt about him, and she did not want to.
“So what you’re saying is that you’re tormented by my beauty,” she concluded. She felt him tense and touched his arm, in what was meant to be reassurance, but it only made him tense more. She looked up at him and said softly, “Don’t worry. I’m tormented by your beauty too.”
Kami was clearly terrible at reassurance. Jared was looking at her warily, his mouth twisted, as if he thought she was making fun of him.
He was obviously not quite coherent, saying all that he was thinking, fever bringing all his careful guards down. That made her think what he was saying was true, and that the few kisses and few words they had exchanged before he was taken meant what she wanted them to mean.
She looked up into his fever-flushed face, splashes of color on his high cheekbones, his mussed hair like old gold. Ash and Rusty were both objectively better-looking than he was; she remembered knowing that, even though it no longer felt true. The way he looked had more meaning to her than the way anybody else looked. She translated his face and ways to her town, to the woods, to fairy tales; she tried to guess at his moods by watching for the changing shades of gray in his eyes.
“I remember all the details of how you look, and I use them to tell myself stories about you,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t look at anyone else like that. I don’t think about anyone else the way I think about you.”
It was the most she had ever said to him about how she felt, and she did not know how to talk about it other than by talking about stories, and the way love changed hers.
Kami had not let go of his arm or looked away from him. She saw him bite his lip as if trying to hold back a smile, a slow-dawning one that moved through disbelief into happiness.
“I try—not to smile too much, or too wide,” he said, as if he was reading her mind. “It makes the scar stretch. I always thought it looked weird—or scary, maybe. So I think I know h
ow you feel, about being self-conscious about how you look. Not that … there’s nothing wrong with anything about you. I like all the details of how you look.” He paused, and looked suddenly worried. “Not that I have a fetish.”
His almost-smile abruptly turned into concern. There was so much to trip over in a conversation like this, dragging all their lurking insecurities into the light, but she knew what he had meant: to share that there were things he felt self-conscious about too, even if they were not the same.
“I do,” said Kami.
Jared blinked. “You do?”
“I have a fetish,” Kami claimed. “For scars,” she added, and Jared’s mouth quirked. His smile still looked incredulous, but in a different way. “Obviously my first choice would be Mr. Stearn, who was in World War II and is by all reports absolutely covered in scars. Hot, am I right? But alas, our love can never be.”
“That’s tragic,” said Jared.
“He’s like a hundred years old, I’d kill him with my enthusiasm,” said Kami. “I couldn’t live with myself. He’s a hero who fought for our country. You’ll have to do.”
“I’m a little reassured,” Jared told her. He laughed, a slow, wonderful sound, warm as the line of his body against hers. “But I’m mostly appalled. I had no idea of the massive age range my competition apparently fits into. Anyone from the age of thirteen to a hundred?”
Kami moved her hand with some daring. Every touch had such weight with them. She wanted, one day, to be able to touch him casually and have neither of them notice it as anything but a little everyday sweetness. Now, though, she could only draw in a deep breath as she drew her hand along his arm, to the swell of his shoulder, and be helplessly pleased that he tensed but did not move away.
She let her palm rest against the warm curve of his neck, and felt his throat move against her fingers as he took his own deep breath.
“You don’t have any competition,” she whispered. “And I love your smile.”
She closed her eyes and let herself lean into him, head beside his on the pillow so she could press her lips lightly, shyly, against that smile. She felt the curve of that smile deepen, curling and sweet, against her own. The kiss ended, but their smiles did not. Kami curled in closer to him, and kept her fingers curled at his throat, feeling his pulse flicker against her hand, feeling him alive and safe here with her. She felt Jared hesitate, then slowly, as though she might stop him at any moment, drape an arm around her waist.
They were curved together like quotation marks with no words in between, and she was so warm.
She pushed Ash’s thoughts, the cold insistent lap of an ocean against an unwilling and unwelcoming shore, to the back of her mind. She tried to ignore him, and almost could.
When Kami woke, it was still afternoon, but the day had mellowed, the sun brighter and lower in the window. The light pouring over their bed was the color of ripe pears.
Jared was already awake, leaning up on one elbow and looking at her. His eyes looked clearer now, and the fever-bright flush in his face had faded. Kami had heard the Lynburns called the creatures of red and gold before, but right now he looked like a creature of gold alone, all the blood washed away from the sleek bright lines of him, leaving him gleaming and happy in the sunlight.
“Watching me sleep?” Kami asked.
“Trying to work out a way to get to your book without waking you up,” Jared returned, and grinned at her.
“I can tell when you’re lying.”
“That’s because you’re a very talented investigative reporter,” said Jared, and leaned down toward her. He paused and checked himself as he did so, face hovering over hers, and Kami tried not to read too much into that hesitation.
She cupped the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and brought his mouth to hers.
She was not expecting the shiver that went through her like light through water, the shock of urgent joy that had her surging up against him, her fingers clenching on his hair and her heart racing: she was so, so glad he was alive.
Jared’s arm locked around her waist for a moment, hand warm at the small of her back, pressing her against him. Then they rolled together in the tangle of sunlight and white sheets so her head hit the pillow, and he was arched over her, obviously trying not to rest his weight on her. There was still weight on her, heavy muscle pressing her down into the sheets, but Kami liked it.
Everything was warm except for his mouth, which was hot on hers, slow and hungry and searching. Kami had to remind herself to be careful not to touch his chest, where despite everything Lillian had done there were new scars, but she slid her palms from his neck to the smooth planes of his collarbone, the coiled strength of his shoulders and his arms, mapping out all the skin she could reach.
She stretched underneath him, stretched up to where he was arched over her, and he made a small sound, half exhale and half gasp, into her open mouth.
“Kami,” he said, voice low. He kissed her again, her mouth, her cheek and her chin, and then the side of her throat. She felt his lips curl, the smile pressed into her skin like a secret. “You once told me asking was sexy.”
“Yes?” said Kami.
“So … ,” Jared asked. “Can I?”
Kami looked at him inquiringly, her hand on his shoulder, fingers sweeping in a small continuous circle, a caress encouraging him to continue.
Jared kissed the hollow at the base of her throat, lips lingering on the spot. One of his hands left the mattress for the first time, to pull the side of her ruffled collar slightly open. He kissed the exposed skin and glanced up at her, a quick nervous glance through his sun-dusted lashes.
“Kami,” he murmured, and his voice scraped in his throat. “Can I?”
All the breath left her in a dizzy rush. “Are you sure?”
She thought she should check: she had never seen him sure before, not about touching her, but one corner of his mouth lifted as if he found the idea of saying no laughable. “Yes,” he said.
She was not sure what she felt: surprised and happy and curious and nervous all at once, but she did feel sure enough to smile.
“Yes,” she said in return.
He surged up to kiss her again, his smile against hers, and as he kissed her he undid the top button of her dress with shaking hands, and dipped his head down to kiss the newly bared skin. Her skin felt different than it ever had before, prickling with cool air and a wash of sensation, made new piece by piece.
Jared glanced up again. “Can I?”
Smiling felt as irresistible and necessary as breathing. “Yes.”
He undid another button, revealing bright pink pin-striped with darker pink and edged with a tiny line of purple lace, and kissed the curve just above where the lace rested.
“Can I?” he asked, and smiled against her skin again.
Kami looked down at his golden head, remembered her underwear did not match—it never did, not when it was important, it was one of life’s great injustices that fate never lent a helping hand in the underwear department—and decided she did not care. “Yes.”
He undid another button, asked for and received murmured permission to undo another and another, until all the buttons were undone. Kami’s sleeves slid down to her elbows. Jared kissed the rise of her stomach, directly under her belly button, and looked up at her one more time.
Sunlight filled the bed, edge to edge, so the tumbled sheets were brimming with it, warming Kami all along her body. Jared’s hands rested on the curve of her hips, fingertips brushing lace with intent, and the warmth rushing over her transformed into currents of anticipatory heat. Kami looked down her body at what she had found in the sunlight: at Jared, his broad golden shoulders and crazily ruffled golden hair, eyes bright and dazzled looking at her.
“Can I?” he asked, and she could see his smile now, sweet and shocked, as if happiness was newly discove
red treasure he had never suspected was there.
“Yes,” Kami murmured. Smiling was like breathing, utterly natural and impossible not to do. “Yes, yes.”
The thundering rain of blows on the door made them both jolt.
“Guys,” Ash said from behind the door, voice strangled. “I’m sorry, but no.”
Kami clutched her dress together, doing up her buttons with fumbling fingers. Happiness felt chased away like a scared animal.
By the time her dress was done up and she looked for Jared, he was off the bed and pulling on the folded shirt Martha Wright had left on the chest of drawers. He was looking away from her, jaw set and gaze intent on the door.
Kami scrambled off the bed as Jared stalked to the door and swung it wide open. Ash stood in the doorway, face red and shoulders hunched. Jared didn’t speak to him; he shoved past him and walked off down the corridor.
Kami expected certain terrible behaviors from Jared, and right now she felt let down.
If you wanted something done, she supposed, you just had to do it yourself, so she walked over to the doorway and punched Ash hard in the arm.
“That was not an okay thing to do,” said Kami. “Ladies have needs!”
Ash hunched in farther, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was really an impressive shade of scarlet: if he wasn’t seventeen, Kami would have been worried about him having a heart attack.
She had been trying so hard to keep him warded off from her, to have that moment with Jared be a safe space. She was furious knowing that it had not quite been possible: that he had been there, like a cold stone in the bottom of a pool. Now that she had relaxed the vigilance of her bonds, she could feel what he felt bleeding through, feel the churning confusion of his emotions, embarrassment and humiliation and extreme discomfort among them. She could not blame him, even though she wanted to.
“I’m sorry,” Ash said in a small voice, and added in her head: It was very weird and I didn’t know what to do—
Unmade (The Lynburn Legacy Book 3) Page 7
