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A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 271 из 293The Goddess had warned meto protect Galen and Barinthus. But it was as if Rhys wasn’t important enough to her to waste such power.
I would never be able to send him away again without wondering if I sent him to his death. I pulled his shirt out of his pants. I had to touch more of him. I had to tell him with my hands and my body that he did mean something to me. That I did see him. That I never wanted him to die in the dark where I could not find him.
He propped himself up on his good arm, so that I could slide the shirt free. I meant to run my hands over that pale skin, but Rhys let himself fall back upon my body, pressing his mouth hungrily against mine. I’d forgotten the moth. I’d forgotten everything but the feel of his body pressed against mine.
Pain, sharp and immediate like tiny needles, pierced the skin of my stomach. Rhys cursed, and drew back from me, as if something had bitten him, and maybe it had.
He raised up on his knees, and showed his stomach. It looked like a bloody version of the moth on my stomach. He touched it, and it was flat, one-dimensional. The skin around the outline and colors was ridged and red, puffy and swollen, but I could see the image of the moth on his stomach.
The other men crowded round, and it was Galen who asked, “It’s not the same thing we have, is it?”
“No.” Doyle touched it ever so gently, and even that made Rhys flinch.
“Ow,” Rhys said.
Doyle smiled. “Either the moth did not like being crushed or…”
“Yes,” Frost said.
“It cannot be,” Hawthorne said.
“It cannot be what?” Galen asked.
“A calling.” Doyle was pulling his black T-shirt out of his pants. I was about to point out that he’d never get the shirt off without taking his shoulder holster off first, but he raised the neck of the shirt over his head so that it sat behind his shoulders, still covering his arms, but leaving his chest and stomach bare.
“What is a calling?” I asked.
“What were you thinking just before you kissed Rhys?” he asked.
“That I didn’t want him to go into the dark alone, and not be able to find him.”
Rhys slid off the bed, acting as if he hurt, but he was using both arms again. He noticed it, too, because he took his arm out of the sling, flexing his fingers. “Healed.” He looked down at the wound on his stomach, then up at me. “It’s always the doom of any relationship to get matching tattoos.” He tried to make a joke of it, but his face didn’t match the lightness of his words.
I would never be able to send him away again without wondering if I sent him to his death. I pulled his shirt out of his pants. I had to touch more of him. I had to tell him with my hands and my body that he did mean something to me. That I did see him. That I never wanted him to die in the dark where I could not find him.
He propped himself up on his good arm, so that I could slide the shirt free. I meant to run my hands over that pale skin, but Rhys let himself fall back upon my body, pressing his mouth hungrily against mine. I’d forgotten the moth. I’d forgotten everything but the feel of his body pressed against mine.
Pain, sharp and immediate like tiny needles, pierced the skin of my stomach. Rhys cursed, and drew back from me, as if something had bitten him, and maybe it had.
He raised up on his knees, and showed his stomach. It looked like a bloody version of the moth on my stomach. He touched it, and it was flat, one-dimensional. The skin around the outline and colors was ridged and red, puffy and swollen, but I could see the image of the moth on his stomach.
The other men crowded round, and it was Galen who asked, “It’s not the same thing we have, is it?”
“No.” Doyle touched it ever so gently, and even that made Rhys flinch.
“Ow,” Rhys said.
Doyle smiled. “Either the moth did not like being crushed or…”
“Yes,” Frost said.
“It cannot be,” Hawthorne said.
“It cannot be what?” Galen asked.
“A calling.” Doyle was pulling his black T-shirt out of his pants. I was about to point out that he’d never get the shirt off without taking his shoulder holster off first, but he raised the neck of the shirt over his head so that it sat behind his shoulders, still covering his arms, but leaving his chest and stomach bare.
“What is a calling?” I asked.
“What were you thinking just before you kissed Rhys?” he asked.
“That I didn’t want him to go into the dark alone, and not be able to find him.”
Rhys slid off the bed, acting as if he hurt, but he was using both arms again. He noticed it, too, because he took his arm out of the sling, flexing his fingers. “Healed.” He looked down at the wound on his stomach, then up at me. “It’s always the doom of any relationship to get matching tattoos.” He tried to make a joke of it, but his face didn’t match the lightness of his words.