Page 15 of Love, Nemesis (Ocean to Ashes #2)

AGAINST THE COMMON understanding of beauty, the wrinkled lilac dress accentuated her like a river around stones.

The loose fabric shifted with every subtle movement, announcing the careful placement of toned legs and strong hips.

There was something very intentional in her movements.

There was also something vulnerable and exposing in her physical strength, Lethe observed, in that he could see her body move, from the tug in her arm to the very flickers of muscle through her legs against the dress.

He could see a sharp tenderness in her fingers as she pinned a sunlit curl behind her ear. And a muffled boldness in the way she scanned the crowds with wary eyes but loose posture.

Her dark hair washed over the curves of her shoulders and back, a wild sculpture of the wind.

A breeze rolled her hair over her shoulder, and she moved her fingers over the columns of her throat and then her ear as if it had whispered something to her.

Her eyes flickered back toward the crowd and he witnessed for a second a wildfire in her eyes, and then saw it muffled again, perhaps by rules akin to campfire stones she’d carved from some social or religious convictions.

The man next to her leaned over and whispered something.

Her expression broke into a laugh, a bright flare of broken restraint before she recoiled again.

She was a picture of the pulling tides, an embodiment of inner tension that made conflict seem like an art.

He wondered how fragile the balance was.

“Hey, are you going to finish your drink?” Cal chirped, and with his voice, the singing, the crowd, the noise of it all flooded Lethe’s focus.

Lethe leaned back in his chair, tugged from the closest he could feel to a meditative state. He released the end of this thumb, trapped between his front teeth pensively. His hand fell back against the empty plate on the table.

His eyes were still on the woman. He’d caught her looking first, staring daggers, which had caught him off guard. She’d been so focused on his hands when he’d picked up the piece of bread that she hadn’t seen him notice her.

He’d wanted to approach her then, ask what her problem was, but thought it better to watch and wait.

Her attention differed from curiosity, lust, or hatred.

She looked at him like she wanted to challenge him, and that sent a steely shiver of anticipation up his spine.

Now, he savored the pleasurable hum of it.

Admittedly, a bit of a glutton for some things, he was reverent when it came to power.

It wasn’t the kind of power that came from mutations, though he liked that too.

This was the power of the human spirit, forged through conflict—two persons sharpened against one another by friction.

That was his meaning in life, to always be sharper, and it was always a pleasant surprise to spot another knife in the crowd.

He saw all of this, but there was one final detail that, above all of the others, incited him to approach her—the circular brand of an En Sanctan slave.

Exposed on her collarbone, she seemed to wear it without any qualms. In fact, he hoped that she might even wear it with the stoic pride of a survivor.

“You ate your cake with your hands?” Cal blurted out, reminding Lethe that he was still there.

Lethe rubbed his face, glancing over through his fingers to see Cal examining the crumbs over the plate.

“It’s easier that way,” Lethe replied glumly.

If some people could be called knives, Cal was a spoon—a teaspoon.

“You said that about the salad earlier and I believed you because eating it with a fork has always been hard, but I’m not sure about this.” Cal continued to stand there, glass in hand, as if he couldn’t pick up on Lethe’s resistance to the question.

Finally, Lethe rolled his eyes. “I don’t like forks…or spoons.”

“Just in general?” Cal chirped back.

“They make”—he rolled his wrists as if gesturing to something in front of him—space.”

“Space?”

“I like to experience my food, all right?” Lethe threw the explanation out, hoping Cal would leave it alone.

To his dismay, Cal continued, “You’ve also experienced a lot of other things today.”

Lethe raised an eyebrow.

Cal scanned the table. “Oh. You washed your hands. That’s a washcloth, right?” he asked, pointing to a rag near Lethe’s plate.

“And if it wasn’t?”

Cal eased down on the chair next to Lethe. “That would be very unsanitary.” He picked up the cloth as if to make sure it was a washcloth. “You know, you probably shouldn’t do things to get people’s attention here.”

Lethe looked over his shoulder at Cal. “I know. But I can’t help but touch the cake.” His eyes narrowed as he lowered his voice. “The soft, warm bread reminds me of the bodies of my victims from the war.”

The emotion drained from Cal’s face.

“The icing…you know, after blood sits long enough in the sun, you mix it with a bit of sugar and it gets just like that,” Lethe said darkly.

Cal searched his face desperately for a figment of falsehood. Lethe cracked a smile as if releasing him from some nightmare he’d stumbled into. Cal laughed nervously before looking away.

“Relax, kid,” Lethe said, lowering his voice. “Cooked down, you’d barely fit on a piece of toast.”

“I knew you were kidding,” Cal said, looking down at his drink as he moved the ice around in the glass.

“Did you?”

“Yeah…kind of. Manaj told me you’d try to mess with me.”

“Did he now? Did he send you a travel guide too?”

“No, but he guessed right when he said you’d likely catch up with me. He also told me that if I put up with you, then in return you’d do everything you could to keep me safe. Manaj said that’s how you work,” Cal explained as if reading from a guidebook.

“That’s how I work?” Lethe sighed, rubbing his face. “I’m going to kill that old man when I get back.”

“He said you like to feel like you’re always in control and on top of things, but it’s because you think you can do what’s good if you’re in control, so you’re a nice guy—a soft person on the inside.”

“He told you all of that?” Lethe growled. “What did the two of you do? Have a sharing circle?”

“I’m paraphrasing.” Cal shrugged. “I think some of his exact words were ‘narcissistic’ and ‘marshmallow.’”

“I think I’m going to dance,” Lethe said, setting his glass down on the table as he picked up his gloves and slipped them through his belt. “I’m done.”

“W—What? You? Dance? With who?”

“You should too. There’s no use in just waiting around,” he said before moving through the crowd. He slipped into the obscurity of the dancing bodies and evening light, navigating to the side of the woman’s table as she spoke to the man with her.

A subtle flicker of the man’s eyes behind her caused the woman to turn. Lethe offered a hand when her eyes settled on him.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

She took his hand without pause, leading him off into the crowd with obvious urgency, as if he’d surprised her.

He stopped short, pulling on her hand and turning her into him.

She caught his other hand, and for a brief second, the vitality in her blazed and then all at once was gone.

He found himself a little disappointed that she was so shut down and immediately started strategizing other ways to prod and poke that fire again.

She danced with him for a moment, and he waited for her to acknowledge the aggressive nature in which he’d stopped her, or perhaps the rush with which she’d dragged him off, but she didn’t.

“Who are you?” she asked, eyes looking fearlessly deep into his like a woman unafraid of the dark. For the first time in a long time, he missed that.

He used to be like that.

“Lethe. And you?” he asked.

“Ana,” she replied. “Why did you leave En Sanctus?”

He exhaled steadily, embracing that challenge in her eyes. Silently, she accused him of the worst but still didn’t flinch away from him. Only from that, he couldn’t help but assume that she had a severity of her own kind.

A kindred spirit , he thought, and found the concept riveting.

“Why did you?” he asked, eyeing the brand on her collarbone.

Her eyes searched his face, reading every detail, and sparing no sign that she disliked him.

He reveled in the openness of her eyes, savoring the mixture of warm browns and gold.

Her skin was flushed under the festival light, spoken for by the sun that had left freckles across her nose, chest, and shoulders.

Disliking him quickly was not unusual, but he was flattered to get such a record-breaking time.

He got to her, maybe just as quickly as she’d gotten to him.

Hate, love, jealously, anger—to him it didn’t matter.

If someone could make you feel a certain way, in his mind, they were already close to you.

“You’ve made a nice life for yourself here,” he said. “I won’t threaten that.”

“You’re a war hero of some kind, aren’t you?” she replied, as if that were enough to justify her feelings. “You are a threat.”

“Not to you.”

“I don’t tolerate people like you,” she said.

“You’re dancing with me.”

“For the people I want to protect.”

“And so, for them you’ll tolerate me? That puts them in quite a bit of danger,” he joked, but wondered how seriously she’d take the comment.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“This is it.” He released one hand and spun her around. She obliged, still nothing but stones, and then he tested the balance.

He pulled her in hard again, and Ana slammed her hand back against his with the force. Her body lurched forward, as if triggered to twist his arm, but she resisted.

Would she actually hurt me? he pondered. She really seemed to hate him, and he hadn’t even shown off his Dear Anne yet.

They moved together. He picked up the pace, his hand finding her waist. A snap step. He turned them, and a few people in the crowd veered away.

Ana broke from his hand, but he pulled her hip forward. She spun out, her other arm coming around, elbow set for a subtle, quick blow. He guided her elbow away from his side, his hand veering along her arm, clasping her wrist and spinning her again.

Her knee lifted, leg poised to strike his. He stepped back. She stepped forward. He stepped into her, hand on her side, leaving him open.

Her hand moved up toward his face almost as if she would punch him, and he stopped, locking eyes with her. She noticed onlookers in just enough time to guide her hand past his face and land her palm on the back of his neck. They stopped close, eye to eye, focused.

“Don’t want to cause a scene?” he whispered, pace slowing as they danced.

People kept watching.

She slid her hand down to his chest, fingers tentatively coiling the fabric in a silent threat. Now she was all fire.

She nudged him, eyes locked. He obliged. She stopped short, disarming him before she shoved him back harder.

A hard surface stopped his calf, and he fell back into a seat. Ana’s foot hooked the link between the chair legs, slamming it down to prevent the chair from falling backward. It jerked him forward, forcing his hand to land on her knee between his.

She stood over him, shoulders rolled back, back straight. She took a measured breath through her nose. “I’ve put bolder people in prison and bigger threats in the ground.” Holding his eyes, she said, “Stay away from me. Stay away from the State.”

People cleared a path for her as she walked off.

Lethe leaned back in the chair, running his hands through his hair as he released a breathy laugh. He saw Cal approach from the corner of his eye, glass in hand.

“What was that?” Cal offered him the drink.

“No.” Lethe smiled, removing his cigarette and lighter.

“One of them has a Numbers uniform,” Cal said. “Lethe, you’re playing with fire.”

He smiled and exhaled, watching her leave the festival through the smoke.

His mind felt at ease. He knew this excursion to track down Evira would be over soon, and he had dreaded the thought. Now, perhaps, he had a reason to stick around a bit longer.

The truth was, Ivan Rowe was probably dead. It was Evira that Lethe wanted.

Granted, discretion wasn’t his strong suit, and Evira’s death would likely be a messy ordeal. He couldn’t quite escape either. He’d promised Cal secrets, and he was a man of his word if nothing else.

Lethe rubbed his face. Maybe he couldn’t stick around.

“Ah, well,” Lethe said. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

He fished out his stopwatch and flipped it open. “Should be about time for Evira’s show to end.”

“Isn’t that a stopwatch?” Cal asked, craning his neck.

Lethe snapped it shut and rocked to his feet. “I’ll meet you back here in let’s say…ten minutes?”

Cal’s brows furrowed as he looked back at the stopwatch and then at Lethe as he slipped it back under his shirt. “But you didn’t even start it.”

“Ten minutes?” Lethe repeated.

“All right,” Cal agreed, scratching his head. “Sure.”