Page 65 of The Shadow Sanctum

Are you a Barbie?

He cocks his head in a lazy nod. “Come here.”

No.

That’s the first thought that enters my mind—No.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“But what are you…” My eyes flick to the mirror. It faces away from me, so the back side is all that’s in view. “What’s that for?”

Sawyer’s eyes crease as he smiles. “To murder you with. What do you think?”

When my stomach lurches, I cave forward—subtle, he may not have noticed if I didn’t spring straight with too much force. A rush of heat floods my face and spreads down my neck. No doubt I’m a tomato fresh from the vine.

“If this is meant to turn me on…”

“Just humor me.”

“Where did you even get this?” I wave to the mirror with a scoff. “What kind of person has the foresight to…” I shake my head. “I appreciate who you are, but I am not adventurous. I understand where you would get that idea, but⁠—”

“Luna, it’s a mirror.”

“A mystery mirror.” Is that my voice? “Wielded by you, a man proven countless times to⁠—”

“Wielded? Like a knife?”

I flick my wrist at the monstrosity. “It’s…”

It’s what?

Sharp?

I turn my head away. Wait for his laugh. Instead, the tension creaks beneath the weight of Sawyer’s shoes as he moves to the bed. I spend a moment searching my mind for an explanation—or even a plea—but it’s fruitless.

How do you explain discomfort with mirrors to someone who looks like Sawyer?

I listen to the quick, incessant thumping of my heart in my ears while he sits on the side of the bed and try not to lose my composure when he gently takes my cheek. He brings me to look at him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, more like coos. His words only embarrass me further.

He knows exactly what’s in my head.

My lips press together as I swallow.

“I promise, your hair is not made of snakes. Your eyes aren’t fogged glass. No one would mistake you for an elephant.”

“One literary reference is plenty.” I swat his hand when he touches my hair. But it doesn’t stop him from pinching a lock between two fingers. My scalp tingles as he slides down the straight, full strands.

I tense as he leans in, but my eyes instinctively close. My lips part.

His mouth grazes my ear. “Quit being a coward, and get the fuck up.”

Abruptly, he pulls away. Stands. Offers me his palm, which I take after only a count of three. It would be dramatic to fight any more than that.

Once standing, I pull—not quite yank—my hand from his and adjust my sweater to line the hem with my waist.