Page 56 of Take Her

And that was what it really came down to, wasn’t it?

It didn’t matter if her goal was Corvo or me—she made me feel alive, while somehow being the only thing that could kill me.

Walking away from her now was as good as walking back toward death—because I’d been entirely ready to die at the farm, with my windows open and my curtains pulled back. Whatever I’d been doing post-Isabelle and before Lia had come into my life at Vertigo had not really been living.

Existing, maybe.

Breathing, walking, shitting—I went through the motions, kept myself afloat, and made Corvo profitable, but I couldn’t claim to have actually felt alive in years.

Even when murdering someone.

Not like I did right-the-fuck now, standing in front of her, knowing she wanted me to take control of her.

The temptation was too great to bear.

And I realized it was better to die having felt alive again than just let myself slip away like I had been—it didn’t matter if my new path damned me.

“Open,” I commanded, and Lia parted her lips for me so I could trace my thumb around their edges. I watched her eyes for any horror or fear but found only devotion, and old feelings rose up from the depths, like ancient gods from their slumber. Suddenly touching her was not enough—I pressed my thumb in, like I was fitting her for a bit, and then decided to reach two fingers down her throat like I was fitting her for me.

Which meant she had all of my attention as I watched her drop into subspace like a penny tossed from the Empire State. She sank so profoundly it took my breath away, I could literally feel her giving everything about herself over. It was like a unicorn had come and found me in a forest and put its muzzle in my hand, especially after I reached down her throat to where the thick spit lived, and her eyes watered but she didn’t gag.

We were both in trouble now.

Her, because she didn’t really know me—and me, because I fucking knew myself.

I would be a daddy who wouldn’t throw her to the wolves—because I was a wolf who wanted her for himself.

I would become whatever she needed, until I was the only thing that she could see.

24

LIA

“He’s mine,” Jessica said, as she stubbed out her cigarette. “He’s mine and you’ll never have him. He’s too good for you.”

I wasn’t sure what I hated more—the certainty in her voice, or the fact that she was right.

—Sarah, from One of a Thousand Wishes by A. R. McGeorge

I’d been looking forward to seeing Rhaim again all weekend, although I was disappointed when I looked up the address he’d given me. No one hung out in Times Square willingly, everyone knew it, so I took an Uber rather than face my driver’s disbelief.

And then when the address itself had taken me to some horrible chain restaurant, it was hard not to think he was having me on. Luckily I’d had some common sense and I hadn’t dressed up, but it was clear that whatever this was it was not what I wanted it to be: a date.

When I got there, he was already at a table, wearing something like I’d caught him in that one morning—dark blue jeans, and a dark gray T-shirt with a V-collar that fit him snugly—I knew he’d had muscles beneath all those well-tailored suits, and now I could see them. It didn’t look like he’d shaved since Friday morning. I begged off at the hostess stand to sit across from him, stringing my purse up along the back of my chair before giving him a questioning look.

“I take you someplace classy, people recognize me. I take you someplace dive-y, and people recognize me, only for much worse reasons. So this is safest, trust me,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, looking around despondently before returning my attention to him. “Then why are we here?”

“Because it’s time to play twenty questions—but figure out what you want for lunch first, so we won’t be interrupted.” The waitress swung by and took my order—I picked a salad out of the lineup quickly. After he’d placed his order and the waitress was out of hearing range he said, “You’d better not be ordering that because you think I give a shit what you eat.”

“Is that a question?” I asked, with maximal innocence. “Are you now down to just nineteen?”

A wicked smile played across his lips. “Well, if it’s like that,” he said, then came for my jugular. “Who taught you how to crawl?”

My eyes just about fell out of my head—but the restaurant we were in was crowded, full of tourists, no one else had heard a word. “N—no one,” I stammered.

“No one’s ever taught you or trained you?”