Page 9 of Renata Vitali (The Five Syndicates)
Her level voice impressed me. “So, my goosebumps, which don’t exist,”—bullshit—“are a physical manifestation of my attraction to you, which also doesn’t exist.” Bull fucking shit. “I take it the rumors of insanity running rampant in De Luca territory are true.”
“Those aren’t rumors. They’re facts.” I met her eyes and dared her to argue otherwise.
“Do you hate me?”
My eyes flicked back to the book, mostly to hide my surprise at her boldness. “Hate would require emotion, and I do not possess any of those where you are concerned.” I adjusted my body, doing my best to be sure she couldn’t see my pain. Angelo stopped hitting when welts began to form. His way of assuring no scars surfaced as evidence. It still hurt like a bitch.
“The hair on your forearms are raised.”
So, the princess played games.
My lips tilted upward. I let it settle for a second before I tampered the smile. “Is that so?”
“It’s a manifestation of your attraction to me.”
“Possibly,” I allowed, swallowing as I shoved down the thrill shooting through me. I didn’t know what souls were made of, but in this moment, I suspected ours were the same. “It’s certainly not natural.”
And there we had it. The truth of my attraction, spoken out loud. Would she say something? Admit she lusted for me, too? Or let the opportunity slip through her fingers. Rational Damian knew this had to stop. Fuck-All Damian, who rose each time Angelo whipped me, didn’t give a damn.
She didn’t admit her attraction to me. But didn’t stop this either. Her eyes traced the way my fingers caressed the Dostoevsky pages. “Do you really think neuroses can physically present themselves?”
Most high school curricula didn’t include Freud’s “Dostoevsky and Parricide,” so the fact that she recognized my references impressed me. Moreover, it built a bridge between us, and we stood at the center, wondering which side we’d walk to.
I flipped a page. “It makes more sense than the alternative.”
“Not to me.” She tucked her feet under her thighs, leaned against the cushion, and allowed herself to get comfortable.
I gave her the silence to think. Dostoevsky suffered from epilepsy. In Freud’s essay, he argued Dostoevsky’s epilepsy materialized after his father’s death as a physical manifestation of his guilt over wishing for his father’s death. I understood Dostoevsky wishing for his father’s death—I felt the same way—yet I’d never feel guilt over it. Intentional or unintentional. But perhaps Renata was a better person than me. That wouldn’t be a surprise.
I felt her eyes on me as she spoke. “Death should be a last resort. Not some trivial wish to be thrown about. And goosebumps, your example of emotions eliciting physical responses, aren’t as severe as a condition like epilepsy.”
I peered up from the novel and, for the first time since Ren had walked in, took in the sleeping shorts that exposed most of her legs and the satin spaghetti strap shirt, which hid nothing. Her nipples poked at the fabric, and my Adam’s apple bobbed.
My eyes returned to her face. “Would you have stayed if I accused you of developing a heart condition over your attraction to me?”
She eyed where the throw blanket pressed against my hips. Maybe she did have goosebumps. “It wasn’t an either-or situation. You weren’t limited to goosebumps and cardiovascular disease.”
“Perhaps.” My hands untangled the blanket, flattened it as I held it open above the floor, and tossed it so it covered her body almost perfectly when it landed on her. “You overestimate my desire to converse with you.”
“Which one of us was the first to speak?”
“If I recall, it was me… after I caught you sneaking around my room.”
“You didn’t catch me snooping. You caught me laying on your bed.”
“Yet, you deny your attraction to me. Which is it, Knight? Are you attracted to me, or were you snooping?”
Probably both, now that I considered it.
“What is it with you and absurd either-or scenarios?”
I set the book aside and swiveled, so my feet touched the floor and my forearms rested on my knees as I leaned forward and hit her with a heavy stare. “Dodging my questions isn’t going to earn you any respect from me, and seven days from now, when we start our senior year of high school, you’ll be wanting that respect.”
She met my actions, unfolding her legs and leaning forward, so mere inches separated our faces as we sat across from one another on the divans Mama and I once picked out together. “I have your respect.”
“Is that so?”
“What do you call this?” She gestured between us. “Are you in the habit of discussing the psychology of literature with people you don’t respect?”
