“Too busy hacking up kittens?”
“Uh-huh. And all the other clichés.” I make patterns on her skin in saliva; polka dots, meandering ribbons, and X marks the spot. After a morning in death’s company, I find myself drawn to the slow throb of her pulse. Reverent in the wake of each tiny tremor. If I press hard enough, I can feel it—it’s like a hymn with perfect bass.
“What did you do, then?” she asks.
“I don’t know, Leo. Normal shit. School. Sports. Homework. Anything with computer games.” I was forced to act normal. And forced to see it all in an abnormal way. We don’t talk about my childhood; the last thing I want is for Leo to give me the Poor Orphan Aeron look. “I like the shirt,” I murmur, my fingers tangling into the fabric and brushing against her naked thighs.
“You’re as bad as a puppy,” she mutters, amused.
“Can safely say that’s the first time I’ve ever been described like that.”
She turns to flash me a small smile. “First times are kind of your thing, huh?”
“You make that sound incredibly cheesy.” I wait for her to turn back to the salad she’s preparing, and walk my fingers up her thigh until I find the dressing on her right buttock. Over faint scars I go, my pulse fluttering at the feel of smoothly knitted skin; the dressing is dry in comparison. Time to come off, I think. Leo gasps at the pressure I put on her almost-healed wound, but she stays there, luxuriating in the jagged threat of pain.
I’ve cultivated such skill since I met her. The more I teach myself to be human, the more she pretends that I am. Little is said about the beast in me; she tries her best to humor it like any other guilty pleasure. Still, I smell the fear on her when my touch grows too insistent, too rough. Home is where the heart is, but fear is where the heart can barely remember home.
We eat at the table and talk with our eyes. The first time I took Leo for dinner, she mocked the way I watched her eat; now it’s become a private joke of sorts, and she’ll pretend to be coy by hiding her face or chewing with comic slowness. I’ve never had a private joke with anyone before. Tuija used to bring up shit I didn’t want to talk about, but I’m not sure she knew the difference.
Leo brought a suitcase over the night Ethan and Ash flew out to Vermont. It lies spilled across my bedroom floor in casual disarray; not because she’s the slovenly kind, but because we end up tripping our way through to bed most nights, a trail of laundry and paperwork meandering behind us. Tonight is no different. No work talk, no pleasantries—she knows what I want.
It starts in the living area. I stand behind her as she switches off the television, so she walks straight into me when she turns. Low lights, silent space; she shivers in my shadow, becomes soft, pliable flesh in my grasping hands. I tip her head back and press my lips over hers—no kiss, not yet. Just pressure. Flavour. She tastes like the wine we drank with dinner, all tart and syrupy red grapes. We stand there for a moment, joined in greeting.
Does Blood Honey treat his girls like this? Is he a worshipful lover before he turns butcher, before he chokes God from their eyes? I should understand him better than most. Leo certainly assumes I do.
Enough.
“Bed,” I murmur against her mouth.
“Since you ask so nicely.” Each word is hot breath washing down over my jaw.
Pressure segues into a kiss, our lips parting, mashing slowly together.