Painted Devils (Little Thieves, #2)

by Margaret Owen

“I do want,” I blurt out, and suddenly understand how Emeric could answer with such immediate certainty before. I want him, pure and simple, in a way I haven’t wanted anyone else. It’s somewhere between hunger and curiosity and something else entirely, and it wakes in me even when he’s not here, like a memory written in my bones.

I can’t—I can’t find the words, because for so long I have lived afraid of feeling like this, like roots might grow through my skin instead of thorns, and I wonder if roses, too, fear the moment the petals break through the bud. But bloom they must, and answer I must, so I lift my face to the sun, feeling the tempo of his heart quicken as my lips brush his.

I turn to leave for real this time and indulge in a poisonous wink as I add over my shoulder, “I’m a hundred-gelt charlatan at least.”