Page 30 of Too Hexed to Handle

I’m still not sure what the point of this is when he crosses over to the table and presses a finger to the tablecloth. Barely becoming solid beneath his touch. Becoming emerald. It spreads and spreads, hardening every inch of lace until it’s rigid and gleaming.

I gape at him. ‘It was you. The forest, the castle, it was you.’

He’s calling himself the Emerald King, so it should have been obvious, but it hadn’t crossed my mind that a person would choose to do that. Or why they’d want to, honestly. The lack of colour variety would grow old eventually. You can’t spread romance with green roses that don’t smell of anything.

Damian drops the cloth – if it can still be called that – and, with the air of a prisoner returning to their cell after a temporary reprieve, dons the glove once more, before moving his collar to one side to reveal a black x on the side of his throat. ‘As you can see, you are not the only person in this room to have suffered at the hands of a Souleater.’

I gape at him, then jerk my head at the silken gloves covering his skin. ‘Those aren’t affected?’

For the first time, I catch the scent of flames drifting from him.

‘Immediately after being hexed by a Souleater, I had to beg one for help,’ he says. ‘They couldn’t fix my hands, but they enchanted these gloves with magic. They’re the only thing I can safely touch.’

I resist the urge to shudder. He must have visited one of those places Astin told me about, and been forced to trade his emotions for the gloves. A closer study reveals dark lines writhing and whirling over the material. ‘And is it just objects, or can you not . . . ?’

‘Touch people?’ His voice is calm, but there’s a telltale curl to his fist. ‘No, Daisy. That’s another thing this hex took from me.’

My chest tightens. He’s like me. I want to ask if he struggles to sleep too, wishing he had someone alongside him. If he spends half his time panicking those gloves will slip off and he’ll touch someone he loves by mistake.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, although it doesn’t encompass everything I want to say. Whatever Astin’s hex is, he acts like it doesn’t bother him at all, but Damian . . . he must understand what it means to be terrified every day. To be weighed down by it. And he has it worse than me – avoiding kissing people is one thing, but at least I don’t have to wear a muzzle to do it. He has to keep his hands locked away for good.

When he’s not redecorating forests, that is.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Don’t be sorry.’ He strokes one of his gloved fingers over the other. ‘Yes, it has its downsides. I’ll never again experience the warmth of someone’s skin.’ His attention shifts to my mouth. ‘Perhaps you can relate.’

‘Yes.’ A lump forms in my throat.

‘At least your hex remains hidden. For me . . . the stares are the worst part. Like I’m not a person any more; I’m a . . . thing. Something to be used, or mocked, or . . .’ A muscle in his jaw ticks. ‘But none of that will matter, in the end. With a change in perspective, our hexes can also be gifts, don’t you think? I can create enough wealth to convince people I’m a king. I can make them beg for my favour. What is that, if not a boon?’

I remember Michael’s beautiful wings. How I’d thought being able to fly would be amazing. But Michael was terrified. He couldn’t control them, and they kept pulling him off his feet while he pleaded for someone to cut them off. I put my hands on his shoulders, trying to hold him down, leaning forward to reassure him, and then –

And then.

‘But you can’t have everything you want,’ I whisper. ‘Neither of us can.’

‘That’s because you’re not framing it correctly. I told you. You need to find the upside.’

As someone who seeks the upside in everything, I can safely say there isn’t one to be found where my hex is concerned, although I can’t blame him for claiming there’s one to his. Perhaps I should be jealous he’s using my coping mechanism, and he’s doing it better than me.

I fold my arms. ‘My hex made me a killer. That’s not a gift.’

‘Perhaps that’s what you wanted.’

‘Why would I want to be a killer? Why would I want to be unable to . . . be with someone . . . To fall in love, to . . .’

Damian shrugs. ‘Only you can answer that. It certainly saved you in the woods today. Perhaps you knew you needed to be protected from harm.’

I snort. People need protecting from me, not the other way around. That’s always been the case.

‘Nothing about this is a gift,’ I repeat, wiping my eyes. ‘And I won’t lie to myself just to feel better.’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘I think all the emeralds in the world aren’t a cure for loneliness.’

Saying that makes me realise that even if I win this contest, if I cure myself and save the inn, I still won’t have the one thing I want most. I’m hit with a pang of longing so hard it makes my chest ache, and I have to stifle a gasp, pressing a hand to my mouth, hating the feel of my lips, hating the glimpse that movement gives me of my hexmark. I want to claw it from my skin. I want –

Damian moves as though to pull my hand from my mouth, then pauses, arm hovering in mid-air. He’s waiting for the telltale flinch; one he’s probably seen a hundred times over since gaining the gloves. It’s a flinch I know all too well, because I see it every time I visit my parents.