Kill Me Softly (15 page)

“Like … I don't know the truth about you,” she said. “Or Blue. What your curses are. Everyone else seems to know, but no one will tell me.”

She tipped her head to look at him. “Blue says you won't tell me either. Is that true?”

Felix stared steadily at the stage. She couldn't see his eyes, but his throat didn't quiver with a swallow, his hold on her didn't tighten. He didn't show signs of being tense.

“I can't tell you. It's part of the curse: I can't reveal it.”

“You can't tell me anything? But I know what your mark is—what Blue's mark is, at least. Can you tell me what the heart means?”

Felix sipped his drink. One song ended and the audience broke into applause as the musicians segued into another. Little by little, the amber liquid in Felix's glass disappeared.

“We're called Romantics,” he said finally. “That much I can tell you. But that's all.”

Mira tried to push the rest of her questions down—if he couldn't answer, he couldn't answer. But she wanted to know everything about him. If he had a dark secret, she wanted to know that, too.

Romantics.
What was a Romantic?

So much of Felix's life was closed to her. She never saw him when he was working. The time they spent together centered on her, not him. And his suite was almost as anonymous as the rest of the rooms in the hotel. Other than his clothes and his movie collection, which was too varied to really tell her anything, his personal effects consisted of a fairy-tale anthology and some business books.

Maybe he kept his private things in his other room.

Suite 3013—the room that was forbidden to her.

But what did he
do
there? Why did he need another room when he barely made use of the first one?

“Tell me something,” she said.

“Tell you what?” he murmured, head dipping closer. The scent of warmth and cologne wafted from his throat.

“What's in suite 3013?” she asked, careful to keep her voice casual. “Is it your office?”

“It's nothing that would interest you, Mira. Ask me something else.”

He made it sound like it was no big deal. But at the same time, he was throwing up a wall. Maybe it
wasn't
a big deal. And there
were
other things she wanted to know. …

“Okay. You said that I belong here,” she started. “That I have a place here.”

“Yes …”

“What about you? Who are your friends? What are their curses?” The rest of the question lay under her tongue, unasked:
Who are you … when you're not with me?

“My friends … there aren't a lot of them. Just a few people I hung out with in high school. I don't really connect with people that easily.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don't have time, for one. My dad's been training me for this job since I was in high school. I turned twenty-one a few months ago. You know how I spent my birthday? In a conference room with my dad, going over work stuff so he could dump his responsibilities on me and take off for a while. Now he's out traveling the world, and I have a casino to run. It doesn't leave a lot of time for friends. Forget about college. I can't even imagine what that's like: spending four years figuring out what you want to be … when my life's been mapped out for me for so long.”

His chest grew still for a moment. “So I can't relate to most people my age. They'd probably say I'm too serious. And maybe I am. But I've lost things, too, and most people … they have no idea what it's like to really lose something. They don't understand how that changes you.”

“I know what it's like,” she said.

“I know you know,” he said into her hair. “You're too serious for your own good. You should stay away from me; I'm a bad influence.”

“You don't make me more serious,” she said. “You make me the opposite. I was morbid to begin with.”

He laughed. “Were you? So I can only improve things.”

“Exactly,” she said, pleased. She fidgeted with his cuff link, twisting it between her fingers, contemplating a confession:
You already
have
improved things. I don't obsess over my parents' deaths when I'm with you. I don't think about what's missing. I think about what's
here
.

I think about
you
.

But she wasn't brave enough. A confession like that would change things. Break things, maybe. It was more than just
I want you
. It was closer to
I need you
… and that was dangerous.

Instead, she asked, “What did you lose?”

Felix stiffened. This time she could feel the tension in his body: the intake of breath that didn't get released immediately.

“I don't talk about that,” he said.

“You can trust me.”

He shook his head. “It's bad enough thinking about it all the time. I don't want to have to talk about it, too. I'd rather focus on something nice. Like being here with you.”

Mira closed her eyes. She'd sunk down a little, and her head rested against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, and as she listened, Blue's mark—a heart as red as blood and as smooth as a scar—appeared in her mind. It was surrounded by darkness. A reminder. A warning.

Felix's curse had hurt him—that had to be what he meant. He'd lost someone because of it, and it still haunted him. But who?

She wished he would tell her.

She wanted to be the person he told
everything
to.

“Where did you go?” he murmured. “Thinking about your parents again?”

“I—” He'd already asked her not to press him. “A little,” she lied.

“We'll find them,” he said. “I promise. And you know what? When we do”—he unwound his arms from around her, slid out from the booth—“we're going to bring them something.”

“Bring them something? You mean besides me?”

“Come on,” he said, smiling. “I think you'll like this.”

As Felix unlocked the door and led her into the flower shop, a sweet, wild perfume enveloped her, so intense she could taste an entire garden when she breathed. Mira found herself surrounded by bins of cut flowers in every shape and color. All waiting to be chosen.

“Sleeping Beauties are supposed to have an affinity for flowers,” Felix said. “Is it true?”

“You mean … because of the wall of roses that grows up around the castle when they—when we—sleep?” She lifted a white rose to her face. “I do like flowers. I like them better when they're out in nature. But this is nice, too.”

“I thought we could put together a bouquet for your parents,” he explained. “Something to lay at their graves when we find them.”

“I'd love that,” she said, smiling. “Thank you.”

She tried to picture her mother and father in this room. Which flowers would they like?

Mira wandered through the shop, choosing flowers as they called to her: lush red roses, purple iris, pink lilies that curled like starfish. When she'd gathered them into a thick bouquet, she handed the bunch to Felix, and he bound the stems and slipped them into a vase.

Mira watched him, still holding the white rose. Biting her lip, she asked, “Why are you so nice to me?”

Felix cocked his head. “Why wouldn't I be nice to you?”

“Not just nice. You go out of your way for me, and I … I don't think I've done anything to deserve that.”

“You've lost a lot. I want to give you something to make up for that.”

She blushed, regretting her earlier enthusiasm. “I take too much from you already. You barely have any free time, and I take all of it.”

“Only because I choose to spend it with you.”

“But what about—” She took a deep breath, not wanting to ask, but needing to. “What about that girl you were with the night we met? Cora. I don't leave you any time to see her.”

“We're not—” Felix shook his head. “We're not together. And anyway—I'd rather spend the time with you.” He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek, his eyes closed, like he was savoring the feel of her skin. His jaw was rough; the blue shadow of stubble lightly scraped her palm as he turned his mouth to her hand—and she savored every second, too.

Felix's lips brushed her palm, and then he kissed her there again, harder, marking her with the wet brand of his mouth. Mira shuddered, going light-headed. Her thoughts seemed to dissolve, like the world was falling away.

She forgot what she was asking. She just wanted his lips on her skin.

“Mira, are you all right?” he murmured.

She blinked and saw him standing in front of her, clasping her wrist and studying her, a dark vibrancy in his eyes.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I just—I felt lost. When you kissed my hand … I guess I like you too much.”

It was probably obvious she liked him too much, but admitting it made her feel strangely vulnerable. Especially after last night.

Would he think she was too young? Or something pathetic, like
adorable
?

Felix stepped closer until his body was flush with hers, and Mira's breath caught in her throat. She found herself staring at his chest, her heart thudding painfully, unsure of what to do; and he tilted her head back gently, so she'd look at him. His eyes were the deepest midnight blue.

“You're not scared of this, are you?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered. “Not this time.”

A breath passed between them.

And he kissed her.

His lips pressed the world away, obliterated everything; and a slow ecstasy seeped through her, flooding her veins. As her nervousness thawed, she kissed him back. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence as his body responded to hers, and he parted her lips and pulled her closer. When he drew his mouth away, her legs trembled, like her strength had fled with his kiss. Like she'd forgotten how to stand.

Felix didn't seem alarmed by her sudden weakness. He lifted her like she weighed almost nothing, and sat her on the glass counter, next to the bouquet she'd made, and a spool of red ribbon, a pair of scissors, and scattered sprigs of baby's breath. He stood in front of her, so they were eye to eye.

“I feel like I'm melting,” she said. “Like everything sturdy in me melted away.”

Her emotions tingled on her skin like static electricity, like his touch had pulled them to the surface.

“At home,” she began haltingly, “when my godmothers were gone, I used to pretend that my parents were there. I'd imagine them doing normal things, like cooking, or watching old movies with me, or asking what I did at school. I guess because … I felt less lonely that way. I could pretend there wasn't a hole in me. But when I'm with you, I don't need them. I want what's real.”

She was shaking. It was hard to be honest, to open up, and reveal something that sounded crazy. Because once you told someone the truth, that person had a piece of you—and they could belittle it, destroy it. They could turn your confession into a wound that never healed.

But Felix didn't do that. He would never do that.

He understood.

“You're not the only one … who can't forget,” he said.

He looked lost suddenly, and she didn't want him to be sad, to think about the past when she was here now, ready to do everything right.

She threw her arms around his neck, swayed toward him, off balance, and kissed him violently, possessively.
Come back,
she thought.
Stay with me.

“I bought—a sexy nightgown,” she said. “Do you want to see it?”

His hands tightened around her waist, fingers clutching at her blouse. “Yes. But I don't think that's a good idea. I think—” His voice turned low, a jagged whisper in her ear. “I think—that if you're not sure about this—you should tell me. Right now.”

“Who's scared now?” she whispered back. “Don't I feel shh—”

He kissed the words out of her mouth, swallowed her flimsy attempts at seduction, until she realized she didn't have to convince him. He was back with her, in the present … and he wanted her, too.

His lips tugged at hers and she clung to him, her hands slipping against his jacket like she was trying to take hold of water, like she couldn't pull him close enough. Every time they broke apart, their breaths cut the air with twin gasps; and then their lips met again, frantic, like kissing was more important than breathing.

Mira started to feel dizzy, high, like the world was spinning. She tipped her head back, giving in to it, and Felix trailed kisses down her throat, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his lips wet on her skin … until she became almost numb to his touch. The world around her grew tinged with gray, and the feeling in her body flickered out, like a dying light.

She shuddered when he let her go, suddenly cold, like her warmth had been stolen. Her strength was gone; her limbs turned heavy and the glass counter tilted to meet her. As she collapsed, she knocked the bouquet and everything else to the floor, then stared dazedly at the mess of spilled water and flowers. The crash had sounded muffled to her ears.

I think I'm sick …,
she tried to tell Felix, but her mouth wouldn't form the words.

Across the room, Felix slid down against the wall. He'd torn himself away from her, put that distance between them as if it had to be done, and now he was speaking softly to himself. His eyes seemed to burn; he looked feverishly gorgeous—and haunted. Then he pulled himself together. He rose to his feet hesitantly, like he was wary of coming near her.

Felix,
she tried to say.
Something's wrong with me
. …
She lay with her cheek pressed to the glass, feeling like consciousness was a thin stream inside her that was slowly bleeding out.