Page 69 of These Immortal Truths
“Is that all?” Eyes gleaming, his fingers snap a few scant inches away from her face. “Easily fixed.”
The sudden feeling of air against her bare legs and shoulders makes her jump—beads clicking together. When she dares to break eye contact and look down. Her vision swims with silver; glassbeads reflecting the light with every shift of her body. The square neckline dips low, the hem high.
Her blotched skin is on full display.
The cry leaves her lips before she can stop it, her hands covering her chest. “Change it back,” she hisses, eyes screwed tight. “Change itback!”
The silence that falls between them is agony.
Fingers encircle her wrists, drawing her hands away with gentle pressure. Anna tries not to think about how warm his palms feel against her skin, or notice how close he is when she dares to open her eyes. There’s a strangeness to his gaze, the faintest trace of a furrow in his brow. There’s a flush crawling up her neck, into her cheeks. It pricks at her skin, an itch of shame. “Please,” she whispers, frustrated tears threatening to fall from the corner of her eyes. “Change it back.”
His head tilts, dark hair falling over his shoulder. “You’re … ashamed of them? Even now?”
The laugh she gives is black, edged with incredulity and seeped in bitterness. “They’rehideous.”
He releases her wrists, fingers trailing up her arm and tracing the patterns on her skin until they come to rest at her collarbone. “No. They’reyours.”
She doesn’t know how to interpret his inflection; can’t read the gray clouding the blue of his irises. All she knows is the heat of his palm against her chest, the delicate touch of his fingers fanned out across her collarbone, and the way her breath hitches with the gentle sweep of his thumb. “Does it truly pain you? Letting them show?”
“Yes,” she breathes. She’s too lightheaded to consider lying. Her fingers tangle in the lapels of his suit, lids shuttering closed as she tries to stop the world from spinning. “Yes.”
“Very well.”
She opens her eyes, holds her breath and holds his gaze. Then his hand moves, feather light across her skin, and her lips part around a quiet gasp. Her heart is hammering against her ribs, the drumming so loud it’s all she can hear. She wonders if he can feel it, thrumming against his open palm.
Between them, his other hand rises until both settle on her shoulders, then slides down—torturously slow—until his fingers rest like a promise against her own. He raises her hand, the nakedness of her arm filling her vision.
Smooth, unblemished skin.
“They’re gone,” she breathes.
“No,” he murmurs, reaching up, thumb stroking her clavicle. “Just hidden. Does this please you?”
She can’t lie to him. Even if she could do it convincingly, even if he wasn’t so well versed in spotting fictions from truths, she could never lie about this. Not to him. “Yes.”
His fingers trace a line down her arm, curling around her palm. “I’m glad,” he says, before leaning in close. The lapels of his suit brush her chest, prompting goosebumps to dot her flesh. “But Anna, let it be known, I would rather see you as yourself.”
Anna dances.
She can’t claim to be good at it—her feet always seem to be one step behind or in the wrong place altogether—but any inhibitions she felt at the beginning have quickly been remedied by her last shot of gin.
Laughing, she turns in Khiran’s arms, and revels in the way the lights spin with her. The band is playing, trumpets so loud she can feel its echo in her chest, and Anna understands why so many young people risk the police raids just to enjoy a taste of it.
She can feel Khiran’s smile against her cheek, his words a breath in her ear as he guides her through the steps. She’s certain she’s stepped on his toes at least five times by now, but he hasn’t uttered a single complaint. “Are you glad you came?”
“Yes,” she says, the word mingling with a laugh as he swings her into a dip she wasn’t prepared for. “I am.”
“Good.” He turns her until her back is flush against his chest, hisarms wrapped around her front and their hands clasped. His cheek presses against her own. “You deserve to laugh more, Anna.”
“I think that could be said of nearly anyone,” she says, trying to match the tempo but still feeling like she’s just a little bit behind. In all her centuries, dancing is something she never had much experience in. “Don’t you think?”
She feels his hum against her back. “Perhaps.” He spins her out and, for a brief moment, Anna catches the softness of his expression before he pulls her back in—his words a promise in her ear. “But I would hear yours before anyone else’s.”
Anna’s not sure how long they dance for, but she knows they’re the last to leave. Knows there’s the beginnings of light teasing the horizon when they climb the stairs to her flat. Knows it’s long enough for her to sober up. Alcohol has always seemed to burn off more quickly for her than most. She suspects she has a peach to thank for that.
Khiran closes the door behind them. Anna moves to the full-length mirror she inherited with the apartment, and pauses. It’s her face that stares back, kohl-lined eyes smudged at the edges, but not her body. His magic is still in place, covering up the patches she’s grown so accustomed to seeing when she dared to study her reflection.
She releases a slow breath before reaching up and beginning to remove the pins holding her hair up, wincing when one pulls at her scalp. She’s certain she hadn’t used this many in her hair up this morning. “How many did you add?”
