THIRTY
As before, he cupped her face in his hands. But this time he held her still, his gaze flickering over her features in something like confusion.
It was taking everything in him not to let her move nearer—not to close the distance himself.
But there was just … something.
He thought he understood, perhaps, but did he really? She was in his veins, but that was only now, he could not have said the same before last night, could he? And what of her? The way she responded to him, the way she was looking at him even now—mirroring his own curiosity even as he was so completely aware of what the rushing of her heartbeat against his skin meant.
It seemed he was in her veins as well … how was that possible, unless this was somehow more than just blood?
"You should go home," he said, his voice brittle, words halting, as though telling her to leave was agonizing.
And perhaps it was, she thought, because hearing it made her heart clench painfully in her chest for the faintest second.
Even so, his torturous statement left her bewildered. "You want me to go back to England?"
His eyes shot wide and laughed. "No, no. I meant to where you're staying."
"Oh." She frowned, uncertain. "I don't know why I'm …."
"There's something very odd in all this, isn't there?"
Hermione nodded, her fingers curling 'round his wrists. "Yes, I think so."
"Then I think, yes, it's best for you to go—"
"But what about—"
"I only mean for tonight," he said. "You'll still have your questions tomorrow night, and I'll still be here. And besides … for now, I'm sated, but if you stay here any longer this close and looking at me the way you are …." His eyes snapped shut and he dropped his forehead against hers as he inhaled deep. "We'll leave it at 'you are really testing my impulse control right now, моя кошеня.'"
Unreasonably, there was a part of Hermione that was screaming at the notion of leaving—of not testing his oh-so-precarious grip on his self-control. Recognizing how unreasonable and illogical that was didn't help very much. And so she had to force herself to nod. Force herself to disentangle from his hold.
Force herself to finally climb out of his lap and get to her feet—she would ignore that she suddenly felt cold in the absence of him around her.
Would ignore how it made her heart flutter in her chest to think he was sending her away for her own good. To think that Antonin Dolohov was trying to protect her.
"Tomorrow night, then," she said with a nod. "You'll still be here?"
Opening his eyes, he stared up at her a moment, pensive, before climbing to his feet as well. "Come here." He took her hand, guiding her through the winding paths of the cemetery.
Hermione did her level-best to memorize the route this time. She tried not to think of how not a single suspicion about his action leapt to her mind. He drew her to a halt before a particularly antiquated mausoleum, the oxidized metal doors marked by star-shaped punctures.
"This is … this is where I sleep. Those stars let me know when the sun is up; when it's not safe. Now you can find me without endangering yourself more than you already are."
She pivoted on her heel, deliberately putting herself in front of him and lifting her face to look up at him. Of all the things she was ignoring right now, she could not ignore what it meant that he would show her this. "You would trust me to know this?"
Swallowing hard, he nodded. Yes, she could run back to the village and tell them an upir dwelled here, could orchestrate his death. But he knew she wouldn't.
"Tomorrow night, then," the witch said, Apparrating back to her Oksana's house before either of them could say another thing that would toss her heart into chaos.
