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I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal.”

The last thing I want is to make a scene about it. I’m well within the top ten with only three scores left to announce, which means one way or another, I’ll be joining the fun.

Lysander’s wings flare and he flicks a strand of hair off his face curtly. To my despair, I find his annoyance adorable.

“She tried to drown you,” he tries again.

“She didn’t succeed, though,” I tell him placatingly. “Think of my ego. If I don’t take the penalty like everyone else, I’ll bethat weak humanforever.”

Lysander looks poised to argue, but Antoinette is already wrapping up. If he were human, at this point I’d be pretty confident in asking him to dinner — even taking into account that I haven’treallydated for pretty much all my adult life.

If he was human, I wouldn’t hesitate to lean in at the end of dinner and kiss him.

But that’s where my imagination ends. Lysander isn’t human — he’s not even a monster like Orion, who’s pretty easygoing and used to the human world. He’s someone who blushes at compliments and says achingly honest things like ‘I want to be worthy’. I don’t just want to date him, I want to wrap him up like he’s precious and make him melt like spun sugar.

But I’m a guy who’s done some fucked up stuff and is paying the price, and I can’t drag someone like Lysander into the dumpster fire that is my life.

12

LYSANDER

I’m not counting the times he touches me. I’m not. It’s just that every time leaves me warm all over, like I’ve been dosed with an extra glass of riigan wine. Yet at the same time bright and crackling with energy. I feel alive.

After the competition, the weight of his arm across my shoulders lingers. The feeling seeps through my skin, slowly settling into deeper places.

That night I have no nightmares. I sleep soundly — better than I have since before the fire.

The next evening, Ezra smiles and taps my hand gently across the bar. I didn’t leave it there for him. I just happened to forget to remove it. The light touch ignites a spark, but not the same feeling as before.

Maybe it was an anomaly.

Later, he brings my second drink and teases me while his hand rests on my shoulder, heavy and firm. I suck in a breath as it sinks into my bones like a blanket of calm.

My sleep is peaceful again. It’s so unusual I wake unsettled, yet all day I hold my breath until I can go down to the club again. Except when I arrive, he isn’t there.

After two nights in a row without seeing him, my nightmares return.

I want to deny it. It’s only in my head — an association I’ve invented. My traitorous body craves the barest brush of his fingers, so of course I’ve come to think of him as medicine. It’s almost obscene how I behave to get it. I linger. I stare. I leave my limbs in unnatural positions in case he decides to brush against one. When he hands me a glass I reach for it quickly, gripping his fingers, and I pretend it was an accident. But those brief moments are never enough to satisfy my restless mind.

I prefer when he slides into the booth across from me and his warm knee knocks into mine presumptuously. Or when we’re talking, and he clasps my forearm and squeezes.

Then I feel it all the way to my core, and I know I’ll sleep with perfect ease.

It’s preposterous, yet I can’t ignore the facts. The human banishes even my worst nightmares.

Getting more rest than ever should improve my mood. Instead I’m uneasy and irritable. I bounce between nights of unmatched rest and nights where I don’t sleep at all, except when I briefly, accidentally, drift into a nightmarish haze.

After one such horrible period, I stumble downstairs and am so relieved to see him that I go directly to the bar. Monsters part around me in aversion to my poisonous touch, but also possibly because of the dark circles under my eyes.

Ezra’s eyebrows go up when he spots me. “You okay?”

I blink, trying to gather my thoughts. “Am I?”

“You look exhausted.” He frowns. “You look like you should be upstairs sleeping, not having a drink.”

“Can’t sleep.” I manage a faint smile, but it only deepens his frown. “Can I have the drink anyway?”

“I should refuse service,” he mutters.