Shadowdance(110)

“I brought you a gift.” Her voice was a stranger’s, breathless and quick.

He did not look at the apple. His attention was riveted on her. Oh, but his guilt was evident in the small tic at the side of his expressive mouth. The silence between them stretched. It took everything she had within her not to move closer to him. He compelled her, made her want to… she didn’t quite know, only that she feared the feeling and craved it in equal measure.

“Why?” she asked, when he did not speak.

His throat moved on an audible swallow. “I wanted… Lucien never took proper care of your needs. Neither did you. Somebody had to.” It appeared he would say no more, but then his words came, awkward and rough. “And you said you craved apples.”

Her ears rang. One flippant remark, a small desire of hers, and he’d taken it to heart. Somehow she ended up at the side of the bed. Up close his skin appeared velvety smooth. Dark brown hairs gathered just below his navel and trailed down his tight belly, and a pale swath of bare hip, peeking out from the duvet, caught her attention before she looked away.

His pulse beat visibly against the little hollow at his throat. A silver chain dangled about his neck, glinting in the light. She’d never seen it before.

“Why?” she asked again.

“To make up for what might have been.” His hand lifted as if he’d touch hers, but then it dropped, his fingers curling in the cover. “In a different world, I might have tried to make you mine from the first.” His thick whisper lanced her clockwork heart and had her breath quickening as he continued. “In a different world, I might have deserved you.”

Then he moved. The warmth of his fingers made her flesh jump, but she did not pull away as his forest-green eyes burned into hers. “I might have met you that long-ago day in Lucien’s parlor, and instead of running away”—the rough pad of his thumb brushed over her knuckles—“I might have told you how utterly and completely you captivated me.”

Her knees gave out, and she sank to the bed, her thigh brushing against his. They were face-to-face, close enough that she might touch him. That he might touch her. Neither of them moved. But the connection of their linked hands held her in place.

Her voice, when she found it, shook. “You merely had to show your true self to me, and I might have been captivated too.”

A sad smile tipped his lips. Slowly, as if giving her every chance to move away, his hand lifted. Warm fingertips brushed her cheek, and her lids fluttered under the sensation. “Ah, Merrily, you assume this is my true self?” He traced down her jaw and lingered at her throat where her skin was the most sensitive. A tentative touch, as if he wasn’t certain how he’d be received. “Even now I hide from you.”

She leaned in, allowing herself the small pleasure of touching him, just on the corded length of his forearm. It turned to steel beneath her palm, and she applied firmer pressure, reveling in the illicit contact. “Then show me, Jack. Show me who you are.”

A challenge. He never could resist one. Even now his lips firmed, and his blunt chin lifted a touch. His fingers wrapped around her throat, not hurting, simply holding her. He studied her. A large part of her rallied to hide from him, don a mask of indifference as she’d always done. She ignored it and let him see her. And his eyes widened a touch, his lips parting.

Her voice broke the silence. “Show me who you are, Jack.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if cursing himself. The air about him shimmered, his form blurring. It happened in a blink, and then he reformed.

Mary’s breath hitched. He was still Jack. Save for the scars. The cross caught her attention first. No bigger than the span of her hand, the nearly faded mark was a white ghost against the gentle rise of his left pectoral muscle.

“My uncle did that one,” Jack said. “To remind me of my profane nature. Hurt like the devil.”

His lips curled on a wry smile but Mary could not return it. She thought of all the demons similarly branded, and of a young boy being cruelly tortured. Something of her thoughts must have played on her face, for his mouth turned down and his voice lowered. “They…” He cleared his throat. “They had a particular fascination with that scar. Some of them took to calling me their acolyte.” Jack’s mouth snapped shut with a click of his teeth, his high cheeks going ruddy. “I wanted there to be no doubt who was coming for them.”

Slowly she nodded, her throat thick and her eyes burning. The cross was not his only scar. Her gaze wandered over them. Not simple scars, but cruel marks blackened and carved into his flesh. Thick swirls and symbols. Demon signs. She remembered them, dripping with blood as he hung on the iron spikes.