Starling House(58)
And yet he cannot seem to push Opal away. His hands are tangled in the bloody red of her hair and she is kissing him with a heedless, reckless hunger, her mouth like a match against his, burning every dark thing away. Her hands are fisted in the collar of his shirt and she is so vital, so furiously alive that Arthur understands for the first time why Hades stole Persephone, why a man who has spent his life in winter might do anything at all for a taste of spring.
But he will not bring Opal down into the dark with him. He is not, perhaps, as strong as he hoped, but he is not that weak.
He breaks away. He can’t quite make himself let go of her hair, so he presses his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. He says, hoarsely, wretchedly, “You don’t understand.”
She pulls back so fast he feels hairs snapping around his fingers. She crosses her arms over the tired cotton of her shirt and presses a palm hard to her rib cage, like she’s trying to hold herself together. “Hey, you’re the one who kissed me like ten seconds ago so excuse me if I got mixed signals.” Her voice is caustic and careless, the way it always gets when she’s scared. He pictures her planting her feet in the grass, wrists straining beneath the weight of the Starling sword, telling him to shut up.
He reaches up to her a little helplessly, wiping a smear of dirt or blood away from the harsh angle of her elbow. “It’s not that I don’t—it’s just—”
Opal flinches back from his touch, then pauses. Her eyes narrow in sudden suspicion. “Wait. Have you done this before?”
“Done what before?”
“I just—I mean, I’d understand.” She shrugs, not unkindly. “You’ve spent your whole life locked in a haunted mansion, so it’s not like you’ve had many chances to . . .” She drifts into tactful silence.
Several seconds later, Arthur grates, “I went away to school for two years. I dated.”
“Oh yeah?” A sliver of that mocking, too-sharp smile. “What was her name?”
“Victoria Wallstone,” he says stiffly, a little surprised he remembers her surname. Victoria had been a loud, likable girl who asked if he wanted to have sex with the disarming ease of someone asking for a stick of gum. He hesitates before adding, “And Luke Radcliffe.” He has no difficulty remembering Luke’s name.
He half hopes that Opal is a secret bigot who will be frightened off by the implication that he spent a semester sneaking into another boy’s dorm room, but she merely rolls her eyes and mutters “Rich kid names” in a tone of mild disgust.
“So then . . .” She looks away from his face, as if the next question doesn’t much matter. “What’s your deal?” The mocking smile has wilted very slightly, leaving her looking young and wounded, almost vulnerable. Arthur traps his hands between his knees and presses hard.
“It has nothing to do with you. I mean it does, but it’s not—you don’t understand.” It sounds pathetic even to him.
“Jesus, fine. It doesn’t matter.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m tired, and you’re probably not going to bleed out overnight. Could you dig up a spare blanket somewhere?”
She tries to throw herself defiantly onto the couch, but she stiffens as her body hits the cushions. It’s a tiny motion, less than a wince, but Arthur hears the hitch in her breath. He notes that her palm is still pressed to her left side, that the pads of her fingers have gone white.
And it’s just like that night on the riverbank: the sight of her pain sends a hot tide of guilt through his body, fills him with an urgent, animal desire to make it stop. He finds himself on his knees, folders and notes scattered around him, reaching for Opal as if she belongs to him.
But they were children back then, and Opal was too busy dying to notice him. Now she watches him warily, her body held stiff and upright. He wonders when she learned to hide her wounds from the world, and why the thought makes his throat tight. He stops his own hand in midair, an inch above hers.
After a moment he manages to say, more roughly than he intended, “Let me.” He is distantly aware that it should have been a question. He scrapes up the ragged remains of his decency and adds, “Please.” Opal watches him for another uncertain second, searching for God knows what in his face, before lowering her hand slowly to the couch. It feels like surrender, like trust; Arthur deserves neither.
He runs his fingers over each rib, pushing through the soft heat of her skin to feel the bones beneath. He wishes he couldn’t feel her heart beating on the other side of her sternum, quick and light. He wishes she weren’t watching him with that foolish trust in her eyes, as if she’s forgotten it’s his fault she’s hurt. He wishes his hands weren’t shaking.
But he finds no cracks or splinters. The terror recedes, leaves his voice hoarse. “Just bruised, I think. Not broken.”
“I’m lucky like that.” Opal is aiming for sarcasm, but her ribs are rising and falling too fast beneath Arthur’s hand. He reminds himself that there is no medical emergency, that he should absolutely stop touching her now. The desperate, animal feeling should fade away, but instead it turns hot and languorous, coiling in the pit of his stomach.
He feels Opal swallow. Her voice is an exhalation. “Are you really going to kick me out again?”
God, he doesn’t want to. He wants to push up her shirt and press his lips to the hollow place between the wings of her ribs. He wants to make her spine arch against the couch. He wants her to stay, and stay.