Scarlett used to say that men only have one motive on their minds. Procreation. There is no romance. No passion. No pure forms of love. It’s all for show, a performance of theatrical arts to get us to spread our legs.
This being the reason she chose to mate with the same sex. And when she’d come home—she would unravel. Spinning out into her own ugly chaos like a ballerina in a broken jewelry box. She would sit in the bathtub for hours, scrubbing until she bled.
For this reason, I am not looking forward to going home today. What if Aurick has a new motive on his mind? He told me he was only interested in friendship. He lost his fiancée and did not look at me in that way. If that were the truth, then why was Masten under the impression it was courtship?
“I have to attend a demonstration for a new treatment this afternoon,” I tell Dessin with a sigh that I blow out heavily. “But before I go, I think it’s time we talk about the clues you intended me to find at the tower.”
I fish the letter to The Leather Man and the wooden cross necklace from my pocket, holding them out in front of him.
“And what makes you think those were the clues?” He doesn’t even look down at my hands, doesn’t examine my findings. He merely glances around the room, uninterested.
“My initials were there… Engraved into the bookshelf where I found them.”
He nods, running his hand through his hair. “Skylenna Winter Ambrose. But S.W.A. could have meant anything.”
I drop my hands into my lap. “I’m the only living person that knows my middle name.” I crinkle the edge of the letter between my fingertips. “How are you acquiring this information?”
“Well, now there are two of us.” He gives me a sidelong glance, followed by a smirk.
“The writer of this letter was Sophia, wasn’t it?” His mother. The only reason that is my first guess is that the handwriting seemed feminine. I thought I’d add the name he gave me at the tower when he was in a state of fury. It adds a nice touch, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
But he doesn’t think it’s so nice. His stare is rigid, thick with surprise.
“Aren’t you a quick study?”
I shrug. “But I can’t figure out who The Leather Man is.”
“And the necklace?”
It’s a wooden cross. Is it his? Did it belong to someone close to him? Does this mean he has religious beliefs?
I shrug.
The corners of his mouth tip up slightly, but not enough for me to be sure if I am amusing him or not. Silence once again slams around the room from wall to wall, panicking about where to go. I let out an aggravated sigh.
“Dessin,” I clutch his right bicep, giving it a pathetic shake. His eyes flash open darkly at my hand touching his arm. And he is staring. And I am not moving. Scaring me nearly half to death, he gently pushes my long hair over to my right shoulder, sending an army of blissful chills across my neck and scalp.
His fingers trace the back of my neck, the long curving scar, like the loop of the letter Y just under my hairline. The sweet spot that my father struck with a wooden club, picking apart my memories, leaving holes to decay and fester. I never touch that spot, as if acknowledging it will only let more memories leak from my skull. But Dessin shows no reservations. He looks at his hand as if it is exploring a historical artifact.
“What—what are you doing?” I stutter.
“Does he know about your scars?” Dessin asks, peeking back at my eyes that are glued to him, unmoving, hardly blinking.
I wait to answer. The tingles bursting where his warm fingers skim my flesh are intoxicating. I shouldn’t feel that way. Why am I reacting like this?
“No,” I say breathlessly. I don’t have to ask who he’s referring to. For reasons unknown, he has a fixation with Aurick.
“He’s never seen the burns around your ankles and legs?” His gaze drops to my right leg, crossed politely over my left. I seize the hand that is resting on my neck and grip him tightly at the wrist.
“You’ve never seen my legs, and I’ve never told you about my burns.” Agitation is building to a high-pitched scream in my bones. That’s personal. That’s private. How could he speak of something he does not understand? Aurick has never even noticed. My cheeks flush with a red gush of fever, and I want to scream in his face. Do you know how I got these burns? Speak up if you do! Tell me all about the horror that came when the flames took a bite out of me.
But his stare shows no weakness.
“Stop manipulating me!” I stand, arms stiff at my sides. “This is another form of control, isn’t it? You’re twisting yourself inside my head. You’re teasing me with what you know, and I hate it!”
“I am not manipulating you,” he growls, rising to his feet slowly, like a lion waking up from a nap.
I throw the letter and the necklace down onto his bed. “Then what does this mean? And how do you know such intimate details about my life?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Of course you can’t.” I squeeze the air between us with my hands as if it’s his head. “Because you’re not my friend. Friends do not play games like this.”
He takes a step toward me, head tilting as if to say careful with what you say next. “And how would you know what friends do? The two closest individuals in your life abused you!” His voice is like a deep rumble at the center of the earth, all while matching the roar of a lion.
And it punctures my heart, sharp and quick, like a needle pulling thread.
I back away toward the door, tears stinging the tissue behind my eyes. You’re right. I’ve never had a real friend, Dessin. How would I know?
How pathetic I must look in his eyes. There’s a sudden regret that reaches the creases along his brow as he takes a step forward, reaching for me in pity, and it’s enough to send me on my way, slipping from his room like a ghost that haunts these walls. The lonely girl who has never known true friendship. The one that accepts violence in place of kind words, and the one that collects demeaning remarks in place of a hug.
You have me all figured out, don’t you, Dessin?
