“Why must you do that to me?” she asked.

Séverin looked away, shame flashing in his eyes. “The only thing I am doing is checking that you are well, since you looked as though you’d hurt yourself. I only wished to help you. I … I am not here to corner you with my feelings, Laila. I realize how selfish you think me, but give me this benefit, at least.”

Laila almost laughed. How could she tell him that it had nothing to do with that?

“I am merely acting as a friend would,” said Séverin.

“Does that make us friends, then?”

Séverin arched an eyebrow. “I think we’re past that.”

Laila looked up at him and then quickly wished she hadn’t. The slanting light drew out the regal angles of his face and the wolfish set of his mouth. He looked far too comfortable in the dark, and yet he wondered why she didn’t consider him safe.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Laila,” he said softly. “Tell me, so I may fix it.”

Laila hesitated a moment, and then the words she’d been fighting down burst from her. “Your presence … your touch, rather, does more than enough.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Laila flashed a weary smile. “I’m dying, Séverin. And my body, I suppose, is preparing itself. When I’m injured, pain takes hours to find me. My blood no longer looks red. Sometimes I cannot hear. Or see.”

Horror crept into his eyes. A muscle in his jaw clenched.

“Do not worry too much on my account,” said Laila. “Perhaps it will please you to know that the blank sensations tend to dissipate faster when you…” Her glibness faltered. “When you touch me. And before you think it is your doing alone, know that eventually it does come back to me, but you … I suppose you amplify it in a way. I don’t know how. There. Are you pleased with yourself and your divine abilities? Will you crow about it to everyone?”

Séverin’s voice was soft. “Laila—”

“Shall I beg for you to make me feel alive?” she asked, a harsh laugh leaving her throat.

Her laugh made the lantern light gutter, then go out. An abrupt darkness fell over them. Séverin was quiet for a moment, and then his voice found her in the shadows. He had moved closer. “There’s no need to beg for something I’d give without question. Is that what you want from me, Laila?”

Laila might not have heard the siren song in the cave, but her blood answered to a different call. The thrum of memory filled her—his mouth on her skin, her name on his lips.

The world told her she was a thousand things—a girl sculpted from grave dirt, a snow maiden flirting with spring’s thaw, an exotic phantasm for men to pin their lusts upon just to keep her in place.

But with Séverin, she was always Laila.

The wet ground squelched underfoot. He had stepped toward her, closing the distance between them even more. Even in the dark, she could tell Séverin was standing utterly still.