Page 49 of The Fake Divination Offense
“And you had them set up extra Urzoth statues?” Alexo peeks at me, prodding.
I nod.
He doesn’t follow that with the obvious question. With any questions, just like I didn’t push him for any answers either.
We’re our own sort of religious statues, hands cupped, palms up and extended, offerings only. No reaching, no grabbing. Just gifts.
“I grew up with stupid family shit, too,” he tells me, words as evanescent as the dust particles dancing through the air between us. “That’s why Tem’s so overbearing. It’s hard to escape expectations, even when youdoescape them. It’s always—” He taps the side of his head.
I take his offering. Take it and tuck it away to pick apart later.
For now, Alexo shifts his hand so it clutches mine and pulls until I’m holding the mace. Then he points, and when I look, there’s the Urzoth statue. Untouched. A god with so much dominion over strength that he’s made of stone in his divine form, so having a statue of him created out of poured concrete is common to the point of familiarity.
I’ve seen hundreds of statues like this one over my life. Grew up around them.
I adjust my grip on the mace, eyes on Alexo, who watches me with that intense connection, visceral in its heat.
The mace leaves the ground. I swing it in a wide arch, let it fall with a clattering thud onto Urzoth’s head.
All the while not breaking eye contact with Alexo, whose lips flicker with a ghost of a smile.
He sobers.
“It’s getting late,” he whispers.
My heart drops. He wants me to take him home. Back to that unsafe apartment andTem.
But I bow my head dutifully and rest the mace against the wall.
The owner has magic on hand to help clean us up, so when we leave, we’re not trailing clouds of concrete dust.
The drive back to Alexo’s place is silent. It isn’t uncomfortable or weighted; Alexo spends most of it tapping his knee to songs on the radio.
When we’re only a few minutes from his apartment, he leans on the center console where my arm’s resting, hand holding the gearshift.
Without a word, he links his fingers around my wrist. Lightly, so I can still drive.
A breathy sound leaves my throat, airy and warbling, and I don’t even try to swallow it. It’s living between us now, this obsession I have with him, and he’s aware of it, so why fight it? He’s got me, pathetically, deplorably; he’s got me.
I start to pull into his building’s parking lot. It’s empty, so Tem hasn’t come back yet. Which causes a contradictory emotional tug-of-war:
HowdareTem leave him alone so long? Does he have any idea what could have happened to Alexo while he was gone?
And then—thank the gods Tem’s gone. I don’t want him here, don’t want him near Alexo, no matter hownot all badhe is.
But Alexo points up the street. “Park there,” he says, and I obey, pulling the car into a free spot by the sidewalk a few buildings down from his.
He doesn’t get out of the car right away. Doesn’t remove his hand from my wrist. I shut off the car then go pliant under his grip, listening to his breathing grow faster. I swear I can hear his heart thundering. It’s making mine flurry just as ravenously, adrenaline bursting into my veins with no target yet, nowhere to go.
“Does…” He licks his lips. I hear the smack of his tongue against the pink gloss he reapplied. “Does your chair move back?”
I free my hand from the gearshift, from his touch, to undo my seatbelt and throw the seat as far back as it goes.
And, like an idiot, brain moving through melted gold, I ask, “Why?”
He wheezes a nervous laugh. “Gods, your chivalry, I swear.”
It’s the last thing he says before he’s unbuckling his own seatbelt and scaling the center console to straddle me.
