( a sharp intake of breath ricochets up her throat, a warning shot that rings clear. butterfly-skittish, alina's fingertips perch on the soft bloom of his lips with fluttery trembles, a messy mix of want and fear. faintly, she wonders if he can sense the double-time drum of her pulse, the way she swears she senses his heartbeat — a bright but faraway echo between her ribcage, like a distant star.
protective, her shaky hands flatten against antlered bone, pressing the collar down until it hides the ugly slit line kissed across her vulnerable throat. it hurts, more than it rightfully should, not to touch him; alina's breath turns thready for it, a magnet resisting its very nature. it hurts worse to have him graze the sensitive, silvery ropes of scar tissue that mar her wrists, to watch his stare caress her collar — hyperaware of all the ways she's been changed, marked. all the ways she's responsible for paul suffering the same fate.
not there, she wants to plead — don't touch me there, but she can only feel the words crowd against her teeth, hesitating. it's hard for her to fully recognize, still, what could turn the soft ribbons of a request into the binding leash of a command. her lips part around a useless, uncertain pause, instead. )
That's not true. ( a smile wobbles, weak, into her voice. ) I still loved your ghost. And you loved me.
( even dead. back when she was worthier of it. it's a funny thing, now, to remember how she hadn't felt deserving of a single drop — before zoya had good reason to call her corrupt. her chest jumps with the hiccuping force of another inhale, blowing it out in a gust. then, quiet, )
That makes us — um. Friends. ( a pointed drop of her gaze to the tableau, reluctantly hopeful. ) Wasn't that one of our choices?
( more pointed, too frightened to expect more. it feels — important for him to ask for it, for him to be the one to make that choice for them. alina's safe guarantee a single word from her hasn't bent him to her will. )
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protective, her shaky hands flatten against antlered bone, pressing the collar down until it hides the ugly slit line kissed across her vulnerable throat. it hurts, more than it rightfully should, not to touch him; alina's breath turns thready for it, a magnet resisting its very nature. it hurts worse to have him graze the sensitive, silvery ropes of scar tissue that mar her wrists, to watch his stare caress her collar — hyperaware of all the ways she's been changed, marked. all the ways she's responsible for paul suffering the same fate.
not there, she wants to plead — don't touch me there, but she can only feel the words crowd against her teeth, hesitating. it's hard for her to fully recognize, still, what could turn the soft ribbons of a request into the binding leash of a command. her lips part around a useless, uncertain pause, instead. )
That's not true. ( a smile wobbles, weak, into her voice. ) I still loved your ghost. And you loved me.
( even dead. back when she was worthier of it. it's a funny thing, now, to remember how she hadn't felt deserving of a single drop — before zoya had good reason to call her corrupt. her chest jumps with the hiccuping force of another inhale, blowing it out in a gust. then, quiet, )
That makes us — um. Friends. ( a pointed drop of her gaze to the tableau, reluctantly hopeful. ) Wasn't that one of our choices?
( more pointed, too frightened to expect more. it feels — important for him to ask for it, for him to be the one to make that choice for them. alina's safe guarantee a single word from her hasn't bent him to her will. )