Indeed, Amaranthe’s face grew speculative. “This meditation, can it replace sleep?”
“It lessens the need for sleep. I have often found it more restorative than unconscious slumber.”
“And you think I could master it?”
“You may find solace in the study and pursuit,” Sicarius said.
“That’s… a no, right?”
Sicarius responded with the bland stare the question deserved.
“If you’re willing to teach me, I’ll give it a try. Regardless, I…” She bit her lip, her gaze dropping to his chest.
He knew she didn’t intend the lip bite to be alluring, certainly not when she was wearing that lopsided mustache, but he found himself watching it intently. Distractedly.
“I would appreciate it if you stayed with me,” Amaranthe finished. “I know I’m not much… fun right now. Well, maybe a little during the day.” She smiled at some memory. “But at night, uhm, I guess you saw.” She swallowed, not meeting his eyes. “I keep telling myself to forget about it, that it’s over now, and he’s dead, so it’s never going to happen again. But… myself won’t listen. In my mind, I keep reliving… things.”
“I know.” It seemed an inadequate thing to say, but words would do nothing to help her, and it wasn’t in him to utter inanities.
“I know you do.”
Maldynado’s voice, as obnoxious as ever, sounded from downstairs, a lewd comment about the nature of all-male knife-training sessions.
Amaranthe stepped back, returning to the desk. She tugged off the mustache, wincing at the glue’s bite. “This plan of mine, I figure it’ll either be therapeutic-returning to the Behemoth and facing the source of my nightmares-or it’ll destroy me, and I’ll end up curled up in a tight ball under a table, crying out for my father.” She spoke the words nonchalantly, removing the military jacket as she did so, but Sicarius didn’t miss the concern, the naked truth, within them. She truly didn’t know if she’d mentally survive walking those alien corridors again.
He simmered with irritation at the situation. He should go with her, so he could stand at her back if she needed him. But, as she’d said, he couldn’t walk away from Sespian, not with a soul construct stalking the streets. Maybe they could figure out a way to destroy it before Amaranthe left. They’d killed, or at least incapacitated, one before. If they had time to set a trap, they ought to be able to do it again. After that, if they could secure Ridgecrest and, through him, Fort Urgot’s support, Sespian would be in a strong enough position that Sicarius could risk leaving him for a few days. Except what of the letters at the bakery? Worgavic would be expecting this Suan’s arrival soon.
“You’re not saying anything,” Amaranthe noted. “Does that mean you think the worst of those two scenarios is likely?”
“No.” Hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Sicarius added, “Your letter was picked up at the bakery.”
“Ah, good. Then they’ll be expecting Suan Curlev to visit soon. Thank you for the report.” Amaranthe lowered her voice and said, “Let’s hope this isn’t the rope with which I hang myself.”
After he’d been considering similar possibilities, her words slammed into him like arrows striking a bullseye. Emotion was something he’d long ago learned to lock away, knowing it had no place in his work, but he couldn’t deny the surge of concern that welled in his chest.
“You will not hang yourself,” Sicarius said, the words coming out harsher than he wished.
Amaranthe drew back, her brown eyes distressed as she searched his face. “No, I… that’s not the goal certainly. I’ll be careful.”
Sicarius closed his eyes. What was he doing? He needed to batten down his emotions again, but some uncharacteristically impulsive thought stalked into the forefront of his mind: give her a reason to return. He would have shoved the words away, reminding himself that he’d promised to wait for her to initiate physical relations, but she’d responded with interest to the experimental kiss he’d offered on that steamboat. More than interest, he thought, remembering her enthusiasm. If not for those enforcers and their mission…
Sicarius opened his eyes and stepped toward Amaranthe, resting a hand on her waist. Scant inches separated their chests. He lifted his other hand to her face, brushing her cheek, drawing a self-deprecating smirk when he scraped away the remains of the mustache glue. The smirk was a good sign, he thought. Though she was watching him too, trying to read his intent, he sensed.
As his fingers roamed, he tried to soften his face and gentle his eyes. He had so little experience with it that it took conscious effort. He’d so rarely cared if anyone thought of him as anything except a monster trained to kill. He’d certainly never thought the opinion of a woman would matter. For him, sex had always been a physical release, nothing more. A biological need to be taken care of, nothing bound up in emotions. The need to consider another’s feelings left him less certain than usual, more likely to hesitate, especially now, in the aftermath of Amaranthe’s time with Pike. If in his haste, or even in innocence, he hurt her further, he would not forgive himself. He’d never quite understood why she felt loyal to him, but that loyalty had never wavered, even when it should have, when his methods veered onto different tracks than her morality rode down. So often he’d been on watch, or otherwise observing from the shadows, when she’d spoken on his behalf to the others and, more recently, to Sespian. He’d listened to every word outside that boathouse on Marblecrest Island, and her conviction that he wasn’t a rapist when she had no way of knowing the truth, that Marathi had chosen him… It filled him with-he didn’t know what to call it. Gratitude, he supposed, and an equally deep sense of loyalty toward her. Not even Hollowcrest, for all he’d attempted to indoctrinate loyalty in him, had inspired such devotion from him. The difference between a relationship founded on fear and one based on mutual respect. And love, Amaranthe would say.
“Sicarius?” Her voice broke into a squeak in the middle of his name.
This time his face softened of its own accord, and his lips stretched in a faint smile at the satisfaction her reaction gave him. After her earlier uncertainty, he’d not known if a kiss would be welcome, but he’d been letting his fingers wander as he considered his thoughts, his-yes, he admitted to himself-feelings, and how to approach her. His upper hand had drifted to the back of her neck, and he was massaging the taut muscles, easing the tension bunched there. She’d let her chin droop and was leaning against him. Though their layers of winter clothing stole most of the sensation of having her soft breasts pressed against his chest, he’d seen her naked often enough to have little trouble imagining how they would feel, his flesh against hers. His lower hand had slipped beneath her jacket and his fingers were tracing warm bare skin. Less of a massage and more of a promise in line with his “give her a reason to come back” thought. The ministrations of that hand, he suspected, were responsible for the hitch in her voice.
“Yes?” Sicarius asked calmly, keeping any hint of expectation out of his voice.
He’d had to learn such rigid control over his body during his years of training that he had little trouble suppressing sexual urges, though if she decided she wanted more, he’d have no problem obliging. Her question in the smokestack as to whether he was capable of enjoying intercourse… If he remembered how to laugh, that would have been the time for it. She had no idea how many nights he’d thought of little but intercourse. Especially of late. Since he’d spent those hundreds of miles chasing after that ship, since she’d admitted what she’d endured to withhold his secrets…