Page 67 of The Fake Divination Offense
I relax my fists. “Just sleeping. Here.”
I stack some of the pillows down the center of the bed, but Alexo shakes his head.
“No. I—I trust you.” He scratches his ear and mutters, “It’smeI don’t trust.”
He’s looking at my bare chest, his eyes following the whorls of dark hair across my pecs, down my abs, to the thinner trail below my navel. It’s the first time he’s seen me shirtless, and I fight the urge to flex, to really nail home the fact that yeah, I’ve got an athlete’s build, and I work hard for it.
His lust-filled gaze meanders back up—and stops on the scar that cuts down my left shoulder.
The way he’s looking at me changes, goes from appreciative and hungry to analytical.
He takes me in again, clocking other places now: the edge of a scar peeking out beneath the hair on my stomach; a dimpled spot to the side of my pec.
“Rawball injuries?” he asks.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Most of them.”
He looks back at the scar on my shoulder. Maybe because it’s the oldest, or the biggest, white and puckered and jagged.
Unease sours my stomach, taints all the delicious feelings that bubbled up at seeing him in my clothes.
“Camp Merethyl” is all I make myself say.
Alexo’s brow tugs down. He lifts the hem of the shirt to climb onto the bed, knee-walks closer to me, and lays his hand on the curve of my deltoid. His thumb barely brushes the edge of the scar and he’s staring at it, a dark look on his face, a weighty drop of fury.
With the trial, a lot of the details were public. Hell,allthe details, at least what that camp did to Seb. To me. We rehashed it in the courtroom and then people spent months rehashing it online and in the media, and by the look on Alexo’s face, he knows it all.
How Camp Merethyl tried to set me and Seb up as an elite type of arcane soldier, an ouroboros partnership, they called it. A pairing they could send into remote locations, and because I was with Seb, he’d always have access to most of the components he’d need for spell work. Iron, calcium, bones, hair. I would’ve been his living, breathing component supply.
Our final test was a room slowly filling with water, and we could either drown, die of hypothermia, or Seb could use the iron in my blood to break the ward on the door and get us out.
I ripped open my shoulder to get him what he needed.
“I think I understand,” Alexo whispers. “Why people wish you’d gone all Urzoth-rage on the camp. They deserve it.”
I fight back a shiver at his touch. “They might have, but I didn’t. I didn’t deserve to have to do that to them.”
His gaze swings to mine.
And he smiles, a half-cocked offering. “See? The strongest person I’ve ever met.”
“No,” I say. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Gone over every day we spent there. What could I have done differently? How could I have been stronger, been braver, been more like Urzoth? But it wouldn’t have made a difference. Because when it mattered, when I really needed strength, it wasn’t Urzoth who saved me. It was Seb. He did what he needed to do to get us out. Every time anyone talks about Urzoth’s strength, all I can think is that Iknowtrue strength. I’ve seen it. And it was never from me or a god.”
Alexo runs his fingers over the scar, following the jagged lineup and down. “Would Seb say you saved him, too? That you’re the reason he got out?”
A beat passes. Just a flicker of hesitation.
Because yeah. He would.
Alexo smiles triumphantly. “I’m going to make you realize you’re strong if it kills me, Orok.”
He’s so close, hovering over me on his knees, still touching my shoulder.
I pull back the comforter on his side, mouth too dry to say anything, afraid if I do speak, I’ll snivel pathetically.
“Can you—” He sighs, self-deprecating. “Can you hold me?”
Holy hell, are you kidding me, YESmight be too aggressive a response, so I say, “Yeah.”
