Page 66 of Too Hexed to Handle

To find he’s already looking at me.

‘Hi,’ I say softly.

He takes a moment to reply. ‘Hi.’

Out on the mountain, nature raging around us, the possibilities for our reunion felt endless, but now we’re squashed into a space that’s impossibly small compared to the magnitude of feelings rioting inside me. Astin shifts on his feet, wincing, and I take in the blossoming red stain on his otherwise brown trousers.

‘Do you want me to . . . I should . . . I’ll check your wound, if you like.’ If you’ll let me. If you’ll trust me.

Another loaded silence fills the room. His jaw ticks. I imagine he’s trying to decide what’s worse: bleeding to death or letting a Souleater put her hands on him. Some of my hope tries to diminish, but I refuse to let it, clinging tighter to the shred of light glowing inside me. We need a bit of time to fall into our old patterns, that’s all.

‘At least there’s a bed,’ I say randomly. ‘And blankets! Blankets are nice.’

Hexes, did I really say, Blankets are nice?

Astin gives me an odd look, which, honestly, I deserve, because he knows full well the only blankets I like are covered in flowers.

He clears his throat. ‘Yeah, the blankets are . . .’ Plain. Boring. Brown. Nobody in their right mind would pick a brown blanket. ‘Lovely.’

I blink. Clearly, he’s reached the same stage of delirium as me. We’ve no idea what to say to each other so we’ve resorted to lying about our opinions on blankets.

‘And if you’d help with my leg, that’d be . . .’ Helpful. Wonderful. The best idea he’s heard. ‘. . . fine.’

His hands go to his belt, and I look away – pointless, given I’m going to be doing a lot of looking in a minute’s time – and tell myself the rush of heat in my cheeks is thanks to the fire and nothing else. That the way I squeak when his trousers hit the floor is from the shock of the sound.

He coughs. ‘Ready.’

The bed creaks beneath his weight, and I take a deep breath before approaching. I kneel before him, keeping my focus on his leg and not anything else my head may be close to. Blood leaks from a gaping wound slashed across his upper thigh. The skin around it is pink and inflamed, and he grunts when I press my fingers to the edges of the area.

‘Sorry,’ I say, glancing up at him.

It’s a mistake. I’m hyper-aware of the position we’re in, and I can tell from the change in his expression that he is too. His eyes flare, and he sits up straighter. I flatten my palm on his uninjured leg, sliding it along his thigh.

It’s funny how one day, one revelation, can change everything. I used to touch him all the time at the inn. A casual brush of fingers when I slipped past him behind the narrow bar. My elbow gently nudging his side when he did something to annoy me. Sometimes I’d lean over him in the armchair when he was reading, my hand on his shoulder as I tried to steal a peek at his book.

But there’s an intent in the way I touch him now, an awareness. And with that awareness comes danger.

Danger, because of what I am, of what my touch can do, if I let it.

Danger, because of the way he touched me in the maze, of where that could lead, if we both let it.

‘Why did you come back?’ I whisper.

‘I told you. I promised you we’d save the inn.’

‘That can’t be the only reason,’ I push. ‘Not after . . . Not now you know what I am.’

He rubs a hand over his face. ‘After we fought, I returned to the park. Helped clean up the mess. But every time I saw a scattered rose petal, it’d remind me of all the roses I grew for you at the inn, and how delighted you are every time you see a new bud blooming. And I kept trying to be angry with you, and I . . . couldn’t. I’d built this picture of a Souleater in my mind, and you’re the opposite of everything I’ve imagined. You aren’t like the rest of them. You’d rather ask people nicely than hurt them. I couldn’t let you do this alone.’

Tears make a fresh attempt at falling. You aren’t like the rest of them. It’s something I’ve tried to tell myself over and over, but the fact that Astin, of all people, is the one saying it to me makes my chest tighten, like I’ve channelled every emotion in the world and don’t know what to do with them.

He tugs on a strand of my damp hair, wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger, deep in thought. Eventually, he says, ‘It’s funny, what you said about why you stayed at the inn. That if you were only around guests, you’d never be in a position to kiss them. I had the same idea. After Olivia died, it was like being plunged into dark water. I couldn’t see. Could barely stay afloat. I thought the inn was exactly what I needed. Somewhere to hide away, never get attached, never watch someone die. But you were this . . . light.’

His shoulders sink. ‘I have tried to control every aspect of my life since the night of the attack. Meals at the same time of day. A pattern to the clothes I wore. Every item in my room arranged at neat angles. Predictable is safe. You can’t be surprised. Can’t be hurt if you know what’s coming. But the one thing I have never, not once, been able to control, is the way I feel when I look at you. You’re right, I should be furious with you, and I’m just . . . not.’

His words squeeze my heart until it wants to burst. Simultaneously terrified, desperate and hopeful for the answer, I whisper, ‘How do you feel instead?’

He brushes his hand across his chest. ‘Confused, mostly.’