Not that I want to inspire his soul-crushing misery, or anything.
“Hey,” I say lamely, dropping my hand.
“Hey.”
He brushes past me as we trade places. The scent of his cologne is muted so late in the day; reflexively, I turn to follow the scent.
Of course, he notices. He notices everything I do. “What, Smith?” he asks, brow arched in icy disdain.
I intend to ask him politely what brings him to campus. How his life is. If the troubles with the Courts have been resolved. I am a rational adult who can ask mature questions of a former lover and prove how kind and gracious I am. How well I’m surviving the end of our tryst.
Which explains why the next words out of my mouth are “What the fuck gives you the fucking right to show up here, you stupid fucker?”
His mouth opens, closes, and he shakes his head. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he’s trying not to smile. “Eloquent as always, Smith.”
“Answer the fucking question, you fu—” I growl. And then, to make up for my repetitive vocabulary, I correct, “You bastard.”
“I was here to deliver some news from the Court. I’m leaving now.”
Neither of us moves.
I have his eyes memorized. His lashes aren’t too long, but they’re dark and show up against his skin like someone sketched them. They make the unnatural hue of his irises even more pronounced. He stares at my mouth. I press my hands to my sides to stop from reaching out to him.
“You have blood on your lip,” he finally murmurs, reaching up to wipe it away.
I crave the sensation of his thumb caressing my lip. It’s some kind of out-of-body experience, ordering myself to smack his hand away but watching the slow rise of those pale fingers instead, begging them to make contact. I close my eyes, all my pent-up frustration and melancholy and confusion and longing mixing into the kind of cocktail that could knock anyone on their ass.
Except, he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he whispers, “What did you do? Where’s the ley line?”
Well, crap.
I open my eyes and step back. He still reaches for me, but when he figures out that I’ve left him hanging, his hand falls back to his side. I push aside the spark of warmth from his concern and instead feed my anger. He has no right to ask that question. No right to make a judgment about what I’ve done since he moved out of the apartment and decided not to make amends for what he did, to not even talk to me about what happened.
That self-righteous indignation doesn’t prevent my flush, though. “I walked away from it.”
“Finn—” He shuts his mouth so quickly his teeth click together. He holds up his hands and backs up a step. “I’m sorry.”
I tremble, drawn back to memories of his heat and reverence which threaten to overwhelm me. That’s why I forbade him from calling me that again. It’s too personal, too everything. I’m shocked he doesn’t call on his glamour to hide the slump of his shoulders.
“Why would you do something like that?” he asks.
Lie, Finny. Lie like a rug. “Because I was tired of it hurting.”
Epic failure.
Roark’s eyes widen and if I didn’t need Gumba’s help so badly, I’d turn tail and flee right now.
“What news were you delivering?” I ask, hoping it’ll erase some of this painful awkwardness.
“An offer of sanctuary,” he says, shifting his weight to rest on one leg. “We’re opening the sídhe for those who wish to travel to it.”
“War not going well?”
He ignores my question. “You could come, too.”
Well, if that isn’t the most shocking offer of... I don’t even know what the hell it is.
“What?” I croak.