Page 40 of Salt Kiss
There’s no answer. I hesitate for a moment, torn between worry and breaching his privacy, and then I do what I’ve been good at for the last eight years, and I follow my gut. I open the door.
The library is not large, not like something from a movie, but there’s something arresting about it nonetheless. An unlit fireplace yawns at one side of the room; at the far end, there is a large bay window letting in the room’s only light, which this deep in the wooded valley is a low, green glow, filtered through the petaled shade of a magnolia tree. Books are stacked floor to ceiling on sturdy shelves, a mix of old paperbacks and leather- and cloth-bound books. An antique desk sits in front of the window.
Mark is behind the desk, wearing only a pair of soft lounge pants, his hair dark and damp from his shower. His hands are braced on the leather-topped surface, and his head is dropped between his shoulders.
“Sir, I—”
He doesn’t look up. I set the tray down, take a small breath, and step forward. It’s not so unlike a battle, approaching him right now.
Step light, breathe light. Be ready for anything.
“I brought some breakfast in,” I say. “And I wanted to ask if I”—the question scalds my throat as I push it out—“if I should go. To a village or somewhere. Sedge said you might want to be alone.”
He doesn’t move from the desk or look up, but I see the muscle-layered sides of his rib cage expand in an uneven exhale.
I step forward again. “But I don’t mind staying,” I add helplessly. “If you want someone here with you.”
His shoulders move with his next breath, and they’re so rigid, so tense, a tension that is wrapped all around his body from head to toe. He looks like he’s barely holding it together.
“Go if you want,” he grinds out at last. His voice is rough, hoarse. With scotch or misery, I can’t tell.
“What doyouwant, sir?” I ask, and he finally looks up at me.
I nearly take a step back at the ferocity of his stare. His eyes are scorched with emotion, nearly black in the low light of room. As he stares at me, his cheeks grow darker.
He’s flushing. It doesn’t look sweet on him. It looks dangerous.
“You should go, Tristan,” he says. His voice is low and not at all cold. I’ve never seen him like this, flushed and avid. It’s intoxicating.
Literally. I feel unsteady. Buzzed.
“I don’t want to go,” I say. It’s an admission of too much, maybe, but I can’t stop it. “I want to stay.”
I approach the desk slowly, and he tracks my movement with sharp, burning eyes. Even though he doesn’t move outwardly, the rippling tension in his body signals his awareness, his restraint.
“Let me help,” I whisper.
“You can’t.” His voice is flat, dead, but his gaze—it still sears. There are smudges under his eyes and there’s stubble on his cheeks and he looks like a man who hasn’t slept or eaten or done anything but cut himself open with memories for the last two days. “You can’t,” he repeats, and looks away.
Two months ago, I would have thought he was right. For someone who’s been good at everything he’s ever tried, I am only good if I’m following orders.Sing this note. Throw this ball. Shoot this gun.
Follow this man and make sure no one tries to hurt him as he glides around his glass kingdom.
When there are no instructions, I’m lost. Maybe it’s having a solider for a father, or maybe the army did its job too well, but whatever it is, I sometimes feel like I’m missing thethingthat makes people act. Like I’m a wind-up toy that can only march in the direction it’s pointed. Even in Carpathia when it was choice after choice, my call after my call, the overall mission was clear. Protect the civilians and officials. Stop the rebels. Keep your guys from dying.
And maybe that’s why I know what to do right now, why I’m walking around the edge of the desk to Mark’s side.
The mission is still clear, even if it’s changed.
It started as serving as his bodyguard, and now it’s just—
Serve.
Mark doesn’t move his hands from the desk, but his head turns, and he watches as I go to one knee...and then to the other. The rug laid over the wood floor is thick enough that I sink into it. My knees are close to his feet, and before I lift my face to his, I see that his bare feet are large and strong-boned, lightly dusted with hair at the top.
He turns properly now, looking down at my upturned face, and then his long fingers grip my chin, holding me still for his examination.
The sapphire burn of his stare sends a thrill of danger skating down my spine, and oh shit, what am I doing?
