Page 77 of A Love Most Fatal
It’s not the story that’s made me freak out. No.
It’s how I felt listening to it.
I felt vindicated and relieved that he was dead, a strange sense of celebration when she told me what she did to him. I know who she is, and what she’s done, but never have I felt like Iunderstood.
It became clear to me. I thought of Artie and Angel clinging to her like a life raft as they slept when they were sick, and about Willa and Sean kissing when he passes her in the kitchen. Even Mary, and her little snort of a laugh that surprises no one more than it does her. Vanessa lives to protect them.
Everythingis to that end.
I might have killed him too, I think. If I was in her shoes that day, I might’ve done it.
That’s what scares me the most.
It’s fucked up, all of this, they’ve gotten into my head after two months of sharing spaces and making them human, seeing them cook and laugh together and tear up watching an action movie in the middle of the night.
I scrub my face so hard that it’s bright red when I get out of the shower and I don’t want to go downstairs, but Ranger is running in little circles, probably because he wants to see Vanessa, who I’ve just now decided I am going to stalwartly avoid for the next month.
“Outside,” I say when we get to the sliding door. Reluctantly, he complies, bounding towards the grass, his collar jingling as he does. It’s dark downstairs, everyone has gone to bed by now. All the lights are off, but bright moonlight floods the kitchen through the big rectangular windows. I stare out the sliding glass door into the full moon, which is heavy in the clearest sky.
There’s a scuffing noise behind me and I turn in time to see Vanessa drop a glass, which bounces once before completely shattering.
“Dammit,” Vanessa says, and leans down to start picking up pieces. I rush to help, crouching in front of her to get the biggest chunks before retreating to the pantry to get the broom.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to help.”
“No, it’s fine.” I make quick work of the little shards, sweeping them into a pile while she transfers the bigger pieces into the trash can. Vanessa whips her hand back from her task and I see one of the pieces has sliced a cut in her fingertip, the incision already welling blood.
I drop the dustpan, making a further mess of the glass, and grab her arms to pull her up and towards the sink. Glasscrunches under our slippers, the only sound before I hold her bleeding hand under cold sink water. It cascades over her palm and splashes red over the sink’s surface.
She hisses at first, but I hold her hand tight with her forearm cradled. In the drawer next to me, I retrieve a little towel and hold it against her finger. Maybe I’m squeezing too hard, but when I look up at her, Vanessa’s eyes are on mine, closer than when we danced at the gala. Her hair is still damp, dripping water onto her cream silk button-up pajama top.
“Does it hurt?” I whisper. It’s so quiet in this moment I think the whole house might hear.
Vanessa shakes her head.
“Let me get you a band aid.” I step away, the rest of the kitchen substantially cooler than the space where our bodies were pressed together. I have goosebumps all over my arms.
There’s a first aid kit in the pantry and I rifle through it, my hands shaking as I do.
Instead of taking the band aid I offer, Vanessa holds out her finger. It reminds me of when one of my students gets a paper cut and they don’t want to mess up putting it on. I return to my place much too close to her and wrangle my breath to a normal (albeit slow) rhythm while wrapping the fabric around her finger.
“It does hurt a little,” she says. I’ve seen her suffer worse blows in training without so much as a complaint, but I do what I think she wants me to do and pull her hand towards my mouth, pressing two slow kisses against her wrapped fingertip. “A bit better.”
I should step away now, step back and pick up the dustpan and broom and work on the glass and then go directly upstairs to bed. I should do a lot of things, but I might die if I don’t do the one thing I want to do, so I tilt my head closer to hers. She liftsher chin in response. I feel the breath from her nose ghosting across my lips before I kiss her.
It’s the briefest touch of our lips, but her lips feel molten—the kind of burn that would blister. I pull away, like maybe I can stop this if I leave right this second, but her free hand grasps the side of my T-shirt asking me to stay. I lean in again, but she pulls her head away, just enough to see my whole face.
Her eyes show something I’ve never seen, something frantic and vulnerable.
“I’m a criminal,” she murmurs in a rush. “I’ve killed people.”
“I know.”
“We can’t be . . . together. Not for real.”
“I know,” I echo. She’s made it clear that she could never marry someone like me, and I’ve made it clear I couldn’t be with her either, though my reasons feel flimsier each day. “We can pretend. Just tonight.”
After a pause, she nods. “Just tonight.”