Forbidden Emberlight

The first time I saw Biana Vacker, she was standing in the middle of a training field with a dagger in each hand and a look on her face like she'd already won.

I was twelve. She was twelve. And I remember thinking that if I didn't move out of her way, she'd probably stab me just to see what happened.

She didn't stab me. But she did throw one of those daggers at my head, and I caught it. Not because I was fast or brave or anything. Pure panic reflex. The blade sliced across my palm, blood welled up, and Biana just stood there with her hands on her hips.

"Not bad," she said. "You're Sam, right? The new kid?"

I nodded. My hand was dripping red onto the grass.

"Good reflexes." She walked over and plucked the dagger from my grip, then wiped the blood on her tunic without a second thought. "You'll do."

That was ten years ago. I'm twenty-two now, and I still have the scar. A thin white line across my left palm. Sometimes I catch myself tracing it when I'm nervous, which is stupid, because I've been through worse since then. Way worse.

But Biana Vacker has a way of making you feel like you're twelve again.

She's standing in my doorway right now, and she's not holding daggers. She's holding a bottle of something dark and expensive, and she's wearing a dress that makes me forget how to breathe for a second.

"You gonna let me in, or are you just gonna stare?"

I step back. She walks past me, and I catch the scent of her. Something clean and sharp. Like rain on stone.

"Nice place," she says, looking around my apartment. It's not nice. It's small and cramped and the ceiling has a water stain shaped like a lopsided heart. But she says it like she means it, and that's Biana for you. She can make anything sound true.

"What do you want?" I ask.

She turns to face me. Her hair is longer now, falling past her shoulders in dark waves. Her eyes are the same, though. That pale blue that always looks like it's laughing at something you don't understand.

"Can't a girl visit an old friend?"

"We're not friends."

"We're not?" She tilts her head. "I saved your life three times. You saved mine twice. That's practically married in some cultures."

I don't laugh. She's trying to get under my skin, and it's working, but I won't give her the satisfaction.

"Why are you here, Biana?"

She sets the bottle on my counter. There's a clink of glass against cheap laminate. Then she reaches up and pulls the pins from her hair, one by one, letting it fall loose around her face.

"I need your help," she says.

"With what?"

"With something I can't do alone."

I cross my arms. "That's vague."

"It's complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated."

She smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of someone who knows exactly what she's doing and doesn't care who gets hurt in the process.

"That's why you like me," she says.

I don't like her. I've spent ten years telling myself that. But my body doesn't seem to have gotten the message, because I'm already moving closer, already breathing her in, already forgetting every reason I have to keep my distance.

She reaches up and touches my face. Her fingers are cool against my skin.

"I missed you," she says.

"You didn't."

"I did."

"You disappeared for two years."

"I had things to do."

"What things?"

She doesn't answer. She just steps closer, and now there's no space between us, and I can feel the heat of her body through her dress. My hands are at my sides, clenched into fists, because if I touch her I won't be able to stop.

"Sam," she says. Just my name. Just that.

And I break.

My mouth finds hers in the dark, and it's not gentle. It's not soft. It's teeth and tongue and ten years of wanting something I told myself I couldn't have. She gasps against my lips, and I swallow the sound, pulling her closer, my hands finally moving to her waist, her hips, the curve of her spine.

She tastes like wine and something sweeter underneath. She kisses like she fights. Relentless. Unpredictable. Always one step ahead.

We stumble backward. My back hits the wall. She laughs against my mouth, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through my chest.

"Impatient," she murmurs.

"You're one to talk."

She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her lips are red and swollen, her hair a mess, her eyes bright with something I can't name.

"I want you," she says. "I've always wanted you. You know that, right?"

I don't know that. I've never known that. But I want to believe it.

"Show me," I say.

She does.

Her dress hits the floor. Then my shirt. Then her hands are on my chest, my stomach, the waistband of my pants. She's not gentle either. She's all sharp edges and hungry touches, and I let her take what she wants because I'm taking too.

The bed is too small for both of us. We make it work.

She's on top of me, her thighs straddling my hips, her hair falling around us like a curtain. I can't see anything but her. I can't think about anything but the way she moves, slow and deliberate, like she's savoring every second.

"You're beautiful," I say.

She laughs. "You're biased."

"I'm honest."

She leans down and kisses me, and this time it's softer. Slower. Her lips brush against mine like she's asking a question I don't know how to answer.

I answer anyway.

My hands find her hips. I guide her, and she follows, and we find a rhythm that's ours alone. The room fills with the sound of breathing, of whispered names, of the creak of cheap furniture that's definitely not built for this.

She arches her back. I watch her face, the way her eyes close, the way her mouth falls open, the way she says my name like it's the only word she knows.

I'm close. She's closer.

When she comes, she digs her nails into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. I don't care. I want the marks. I want proof that this happened, that she was here, that for one night she was mine.

Afterward, we lie tangled together in sheets that smell like sweat and her perfume. She traces the scar on my palm with her fingertip.

"You kept it," she says.

"It's part of me."

"It's from me."

"I know."

She's quiet for a long time. I listen to her breathe. I memorize the weight of her head on my chest.

"Sam," she says finally.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not staying."

The words hit me like a blade. I should've expected them. I did expect them. But expecting something and feeling it are two different things.

"I know," I say.

"I have to go. Tomorrow. There's something I have to do, and I can't tell you what it is."

"Because you don't trust me?"

"Because I don't want to put you in danger."

I laugh. It's not a happy sound. "You just showed up at my door after two years. You slept with me. And now you're leaving."

"Yes."

"That's cruel."

"I know."

She sits up. The sheet falls away. I don't look at her. I can't.

"I'll come back," she says.

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

She's silent. Then she leans over and kisses my forehead. It's the gentlest thing she's done all night.

"I'll come back," she repeats.

And then she's gone.

I lie there in the dark, staring at the water stain on my ceiling, and I wonder if I'll ever see her again.

I wonder if I want to.

The answer, I realize, is yes. It's always been yes. And that's the problem.