The table’s a mess in minutes. Curry drippings, naan crumbs everywhere, water bottles rolling around because no one puts them down right. And she fits into it like she’s been doing this with us for forever.
Sweat beads on Corwin’s forehead. “Holy shit—this is lava.”
Agatha cackles, nearly dropping her samosa, then talks around her mouthful. “Baby tongue.”
He glares, reaches for water. “Say that again when your lips are blistered.”
She scoops a chunk of vindaloo, holds it up in front of his face before eating it slowly. Chews. Swallows. Smiles. “Not even sweating.”
I lean back, watching the show. “She’s got you beat, Cor.”
“Fuck off,” he growls, chugging water.
Evander breaks off a piece of naan and slides it her way. She takes it, brushes her fingers against his, and grins. “Thanks.”
He nods once and goes back to his curry.
She dips the bread into the vindaloo and takes a bite before licking her fingers. Her black lipstick smears, thumb shiny when she pulls it from her mouth.
Corwin’s fork freezes midair. My pulse climbs.
“What?” she asks, eyes glinting. “Can’t a girl enjoy her dinner?”
“Not like that,” Corwin mutters.
“Like what?” She licks her fingers again, slower this time, eyes never leaving his.
I laugh. “She’s baiting you. And you’re falling for it.”
“Maybe I am,” she says, leaning back.
Corwin keeps sneaking looks at her while we eat. When we finish, Evander and I clean up while she goes back to her horror marathon.
By midnight, the credits roll, and the house falls quiet. We scatter again, Corwin storming up the stairs, muttering about how his asshole is gonna be on fire. Evander follows her up the stairs and they slide into their rooms, shutting the doors softly. I trudge down the hall to my room and flop back on the bed, tired and still stuffed.
41
Evander
The sheets smell clean;the way rented places smell—bleach and something faintly lemony. The mattress dips from my weight and makes me restless. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling until the slow tick of the wall clock drives me to the brink. The right thing would be to close my eyes, sleep through the night and start the day with the others. The right thing is not mine to do tonight.
Because she’s here. Right next door.
Agatha. One room down. Bet the door’s not even locked because she wants us to think she isn’t scared. She came willingly, but I know better. No one walks into the dark without fear. Fear is what makes them step forward. And I need to see her with that fear clinging to her skin.
I sit up. The springs complain under my weight, a long creak that makes me pause and listen. Corwin’s pacing has stopped. Garron still snores low down the hall. I slide off the bed and move across the floor with bare feet.
The hallway is dark, with only the glow of the moon through a high window painting silver across the floorboards. There’s a sliver of light under her door. I stop in front of it, hand resting on the frame, and breathe once to steady myself.
I push the door open.
The room already smells like her. Sandalwood and roses that have wilted from being left in a vase too long. A candle burns on the nightstand, the tiny flame pushing a hint of vanilla into the air. It throws shadows across the bed where she lies curled on her side, back to the door.
For a moment I just watch her. The way her hair drapes over her shoulder, the slow shift of her shoulders, the blanket lifting with every breath. She is smaller like this, softer. The mask drops when she sleeps, or pretends to. I wonder if she knows how much of herself she gives away when no one’s supposed to be looking.
My pulse thuds in my throat. I should turn back. Wait until morning, like Garron will. Push like Corwin will. But I am neither of them. I move toward her bed. The mattress dips when I climb in. Her breath hitches, quick. Not asleep then.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is low, raspy from sleep or nerves; I can’t tell.
