Page 15 of Dance of Thorns

He pauses, his hand with the lighter barely out of his pocket as his eyes flick to mine. “I don’t.” His brows knit. “Not normally.”

He removes the unlit cigarette from his mouth and sticks it behind his ear. His eyes refocus on me, locking with mine as I try not to shake or say something fucking stupid again.

“Were you really going to?” he finally asks, his voice still dripping that baritone honey.

“Were you?”

“I don’t know.” He looks away before turning back to me. “Maybe. I think so.”

The words form in my mouth before withering and dying on my tongue. But I clear my throat and breathe new life into them.

“Because of her?” I cringe. “I mean…because?—”

“I know what you mean.” He nods his head. “Yeah, partly. The rest…”

“I get it,” I say quietly.

He exhales, his gaze finding mine. “We’ve gone too long without talking,” he growls. “About her, I mean.”

I smile weakly. “I agree.”

He nods. “Look, what if…” His brow knits. “What if we tried a little harder? I have to go do a thing right now. But?—”

“You madeplans?”

I quietly curse myself.

He smirks. “Plans I was hoping I’d have an ironclad way of getting out of. But…” He shrugs. “Here we are.” He sighs. “Tomorrow night… What if we talked?”

My brows arch. “You mean we meet again and convince each other why we shouldn’t kill ourselves? I think I’ve read this book.”

He rolls his eyes. “Congrats. Join the other several million people who’ve read Nick Hornby.” Bane shakes his head. “I was thinking more that we could talk abouther. About what we do now, and how we exist in this city without her.”

“I think I’d like that,” I say quietly. Relief floods through me when he smiles.

“So, we'll meet up here again?”

I nod. “Same time?”

“Yeah. But if you’re running late…” He cocks one brow. “Watch out for falling objects.”

I grimace. “That’s…dark.”

“Says the girl with her shoes on the edge of the 83rdfloor of the Empire State Building.”

The next night,I'm back.

Wearing askirt, for fuck’s sake. I’m even wearing freaking lipstick—a soft rose color that smells a little like cinnamon which I happen to love.

I’ve spent the last several hours convincing myself I didn’t dress up for Bane. I’m just dressed a little nicer than last night, because why not? We’re here to celebrate and mourn someone we both loved, and Lark deserves it.

That’swho I dressed up for.

Not her moody, grumpy, somewhat terrifying fiancé from seven years ago.

I pace the roof near the ledge, glancing at the lights of the city, then down to where my nails are picking at my cuticles. The wrenching sound of metal rips my attention from my bloodied fingertips to the trap door as Bane climbs out of it.

He’s all in black, as usual. But I can’t help but smile a little to myself when I see that he’s exchanged his standard black t-shirt for a black button-up.