She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him silly. She wanted to hold him against her too tight, until the year was up and she could prove that he wasn’t going anywhere, even if she knew it would be a lie.
When he twisted his arm to show her the scratch, her breath hitched and she traced her finger down the already fading demon’s mark. This would barely scar, but it would remain. “Idiot,” she whispered, and she circled her fingers around his wrist, lifting his arm to brush her lips against the mark.
He’d given Ilieth a physical self. Demons rarely had use for such a thing, which explained the reprieve of a year rather than a total renegotiation for her soul contract—she had no idea what he would do with Trest’s payment when the year was up.
She looked up at him, tears slipping down her face as she tried to glare. “I hate you,” she lied, and even she knew it didn’t sound remotely convincing. “You should have—I can’t believe—“
Her voice failed her. With a noise in the back of her throat that was something between a growl and a sob, she suddenly buried her fingers in his hair and dragged him down to meet her lips, harsh and hungry and wild, frantic. “I hate you,” she whispered again, kissing his lips, his chin, his jaw, his cheek. Because the lie was easier. Because the truth ached too deeply in her chest for her to give it voice—a truth that she nonetheless seared against his skin with every brush of her lips, with the way her hands trembled as she clutched at him, with the quiet tears that still stained both their skin.
Thank you. I hate myself for it, but I’m glad of the time you bought me. I just wish it hadn’t come at such a cost. Thank you, I’m sorry, thank you...