"You're right," he agreed. "I should make this harder for you, definitely." He freed me with one of his free hands, only to gather me carefully into his other hand. He stroked my wet head softly, from the top of my head to my waist. "You only have to risk your life every second you spend with me. It's the same thing I'm risking, but I think it might mean more to you."
I didn't understand what he was saying, but I knew he was saying it. "I don't feel deprived of anything."
"Not yet." And his voice was abruptly full of an ancient grief.293
I tried to pull back, to look in his face, but his hand locked my wrists in an unbreakable hold. I tried to shake my face to get his lips out of my ear, but he had a fairly good grip on that too.
"What—" I started to ask, when his body became rigid. I froze, but he suddenly released my hands, and disappeared. I narrowly avoided falling on my face.
"Lie down!" he hissed. I couldn't tell where he spoke from in the darkness.
I rolled under my quilt obediently, balling up on my side, the way I usually slept.
"No, face down!" he scowled.
I stretched out my body on the bed and tore the quilt off me, throwing it to the floor.
I heard the door crack open, as Charlie peeked in to make sure I was where I was supposed to be. I breathed evenly, exaggerating the movement. A long minute passed. I listened, not sure if he'd left. Then Fredward's cool arm was around me, under my shirt, his lips at my ear, flirting.
"You are a terrible actress—I'd say that career path is out for you."
293. A rare kind of grief that has been being felt since Mayan times.