The Scribe
Page 52

“Ava.” He took a step toward her. “There is no Dr. J. Sadik operating in Istanbul.”
A heavy silence filled the room, and a thread of anger uncurled in her chest.
“Of course there is. You’ve been to his office with me. You know, if you wanted an excuse to argue with me, how about—”
“He. Doesn’t. Exist.” Malachi crossed to her. “Do you understand me? He is a ghost. Rhys can find no documentation on him from Turkish medical boards. No trace of his practice. And he left his office in the city the same time we did.”
A sick churning hit her stomach. “You were checking up on my psychologist?”
“Do you understand what I’m telling you? We don’t even know what his connection is to your psychologist in Israel.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re unbelievable!”
“We’re trying to keep you safe, as it’s evident we’re the only ones who—”
“Shut up!” Ava rose to her feet. “I understand there could be any number of logical explanations why a harmless man who was helping me might not be in Rhys’s computer searches.” The anger took over, begging her to slap at him for the intrusion. The doubt. For making her question everything and everyone she’d allowed herself to trust. “What I can’t understand is why you felt you had the right to spy on me. What else have you been looking into? Checking out my trash? How about listening in on my phone calls like you did just now?”
“You’re missing the point.” He stepped closer.
“No, you are!” She pushed a finger in his chest. It hardly budged. “You come into my life. You lie to me. You follow me. You act like you’re protecting me, then you… you kiss me!”
“Ava—”
“No! Shut up. I’m talking here, remember? You kiss me, and the next day you act like I don’t even exist. You ask me to trust you, but who am I supposed to trust? You’re hot and cold. You pawn me off on Rhys, and then you’re mad at him when he’s the only one who makes me feel slightly normal. And now? You’re just there. All the time. And don’t even get me started on what you’ve been thinking, because that—” She broke off when saw a young scribe poke his head through the door. Malachi spun around and barked something in the Old Language that had the man scurrying back.
Ava snapped, “That’s right, scare the nice scribe, why don’t you? Jerk.”
His eyes widened. “You’re calling me… a jerk?”
“I could call you a lot worse.”
“I have a few choice words myself. And everything I’ve done has been to protect you, so stop bitching at me.”
“Bitching at you?”
“Yes, bitching. You kissed me as much as I kissed you. I backed away because I didn’t want to overwhelm you, and what do you do?” He stepped closer and glared. “Rhys? After everything? Rhys! Where was he when the Grigori—”
“He’s my friend!”
“He wants a hell of a lot more than friendship, love.” The last word dropped with a sneer. “If you’d pay attention, you’d have figured that out by now.”
“So what if he does? It’s not like you have any claim on me. You act like you don’t want anything to do with me.”
“Is that what you think?” His voice fell, and he put his hand on the side of her neck. Immediately, her pulse roared. Her mind went silent. There was only him. His scent and touch. The rest of the world went quiet when his thumb stroked the base of her throat. “You really think I have no claim on you?”
She swallowed with effort; her eyes locked on the stormy grey in his. “None.”
“Really, Ava?” He leaned down, his breath whispering across her cheek. “How do you feel when I touch you, canm?”
Her mind warred with her body. She ached to have him close the distance. Ached to feel his lips on hers again. But her protective instincts went on high alert.
Too close! Once he had her, he’d tire of her. He’d leave like the others. And if he left…
“You could be anyone,” she whispered, the lie bitter on her tongue. “Any… any Irin man would feel like you.”
Malachi froze. Then his head drew back and his hand left her neck. When she managed to meet his eyes, they were full of cold anger. His soul, however, whispered hurt. She said nothing, already hating herself for lying to him. No one felt like him. No one sounded like him. But she was tired of feeling jerked around, and her feelings—the depth of them—frightened her.
“I’m going for a run,” he said. “We’ll talk later about your Dr. Sadik. Don’t call him again.”
Ava was too bruised to argue. “Fine.”
He left, and she was alone again.
“What’s gnawing at you, love?”
“Hmm?” She looked up. It was dark outside, and she and Rhys were sharing a drink in the garden. They’d eaten at the scribe house, the table a mesh of languages Ava had been able to disappear into. Turkish, English, German, the old Irin language, and a few more she hadn’t recognized. Among them all, she’d felt comfortable being silent. Malachi hadn’t been there. He’d disappeared in the afternoon and, as far as she knew, hadn’t come back.
“Thinking about tall, dark, and brooding again?”
Annoyance flared. “My life doesn’t revolve around him, you know?”