Marie focused on dulling the pull of her skin, dampening her body’s desire to consume anything it came in contact with. That was the thing she hated about her mutation. Take, take, take. It felt selfish. She wished she had a mutation that was more suited to helping than hurting. Like if she could give away her own life force with a touch, rather than just steal others’. Oh well. Best to just accept life for what it was. Focus on changing the things she could change. It was a hard lesson to learn, but if she drilled it into herself enough times, it would have to stick someday.

Her palm was damp under his. How long would it be until he noticed that? What if he already had? What was he thinking right now? Did he know how nervous she was? Did he think it was pathetic that she was so affected by one little touch? Why wasn’t his hand sweaty and hot like hers?

What was wrong with her?

Logan plunked his beer on the counter, tightening his grip on her hand. “Nothin’. Absolutely nothin’, sweetheart.”

Huh? Marie tried to tug her hand away, but his grip was strong. Great. Another little tug of war, like with the glass. What did he think, she was a little kid or something? She refused to play this time, letting their still joined hands drop back to the countertop. “Sorry,” she said. “I musta zoned out. What were ya talkin’ about?”

“I was sayin’ how there’s nothin’ wrong with you.” And then he was turning in his barstool to face her. Their knees bumped.

Marie gulped. How did he know . . . ? His eyes were narrow, mouth set in a deep frown. She was beginning to feel very scared now. She forgot her earlier decision, and once more began tugging against his grip. “Logan, it’s not funny, let go!” She scrambled off the barstool, trying to run, but her socks didn’t get much traction on the tile floor, and his other hand was coming out to grab her now.


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