Page 21 of Gods and Graves


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“I wouldn’t say that, love. Am I good at it? Yes. Do I like it?” He shrugs, the movement shifting me. “Not necessarily.”

“So what do you like?”

He stops walking and cants his head to the side, considering. The fingers gripping my thighs flex and twitch.

“Huh. I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before.” A note of wonder enters his voice.

“Well, I’m asking now. What do you like?”

A smile scrawls over his face. “Video games.”

“Video games.” I blink at him.

The man is basically a live-action video game—complete with the kick-ass bow and arrow set.

“I don’t play them often, but it’s fun. Relaxing. I like being able to kill monsters, knowing I won’t die myself. You get do-overs in video games. Resets. Saves. Not so much in real life.”

An unfamiliar emotion sits in my stomach like a poisoned blade. I can’t put a name on what it is. Pity, maybe? No, that doesn’t sound right.

Sympathy?

No…

Empathy.

Yes, that’s it.

I’m empathetic. I can understand exactly what it’s like to be trapped in a role you don’t want to play.

“Well, maybe if I’m still around, we can play a game together?” I ask tentatively, suddenly feeling shy.

Krystian’s answering smile causes the nerves swirling in my belly to dissipate, replaced by a baking, pervasive heat.

“It’s a date,” he says.

Everett scoffs and shakes his head.

“Well? What about you, big guy? What do you like to do in your spare time?” I ask him, raising my voice to make sure he hears me.

He glares at me over his shoulder, his eyes like shards of ice, sharp enough to do irreparable damage. Of course he doesn’t answer, simply stalks farther ahead like he wishes to escape me and my questions.

Rude.

“Rafael? What about you?” I turn towards the last member of the team—and the most mysterious one.

So far, he hasn’t said more than a few words at a time, but I can feel his gaze on me like a physical caress, pulling me under in a riptide I can’t escape. Each sweep of his eyes causes my heart to smash against my ribs and goose bumps to pebble on my arms. It’s unnerving and terrifying and exciting in a way I can’t articulate.

“I like to kill things,” he whispers.

His voice is deep and raspy, almost husky.

I chuckle. “I mean, besides killing things. What do you like to do?”

“I told you. Kill things.” Through the blood smeared on his face, his brown eyes penetrate my defenses.

I suddenly feel uncomfortable—too hot, too itchy—and I wiggle slightly. Krystian slaps my thigh lightly in warning.

“Stop moving,” he reprimands.