“It is when I do it,” I argue, wiggling until his mouth twitches again.
He lets me spin under his arm. I pretend his palm is a disco ball. He refuses to play along and still somehow does.
The record hisses between tracks, the needle searching before it catches the next groove. The bass hums low and steady, holding us there for a while. Sweat beads along my collarbone. A muffled thud travels up the stairwell. Then Talon’s voice, rough velvet, breaks through the rhythm.
“Stay hydrated, sweetheart. Screaming’s thirsty work.”
Another scream follows before Talon appears, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms a gallery of old scars and fresh smudges. He grins when he spots me dancing and points at the turntable like a proud father.
“You broke into my shrine, huh?”
“I consecrated it,” I correct. “To me.”
He bows at the waist. “As is right.”
Nathaniel follows, rolling his neck. His hands are clean. Of course they are. He surveys the room, clocks the speaker, the towel, the way Cassian is not dancing, and smiles.
“We’re keeping it down,” Cassian says, a preemptive warning for both of them.
“Is that right?” Nathaniel asks before casting me the mostI can see right through youlook I’ve ever been given.
“We’re having a party,” I whisper.
Nathaniel’s eyes flick to the record, to my towel, to Cassian’s stillness. He listens, nods once, and looks up.
“Well,” he says, mild as milk. “I need Cass for a minute.”
Cassian’s hand leaves my waist. “I’ll be back.”
I make a face before I can stop myself. He’s probably more eager to torture Mark than to dance with me. This bastard.
Still, I say nothing. Something tells me whatever needs doing with Mark—and needs two people, one of them being Cassian—might be worth my little disappointment.
“Don’t finish yet, okay?” I call after him.
His mouth twitches. “We won’t.”
Talon rolls his sleeves higher. Blood is everywhere.
“Someone left the faucet on downstairs,” he says, voice smoky. “Noise is flooding the ducts.”
“Consider it white noise,” I chirp, popping a heel. “It’s therapeutic.”
“Yeah? It doesn’t gross you out?” He touches his jaw, smearing the blood there. “I don’t usually come to ladies’ parties covered in blood.”
I glance at the smear. At the freckles beneath it. At the pale old scars that ladder his forearms like someone carved tally marks into him. I wait for disgust. It doesn’t arrive. Something stranger does instead. Tenderness.
He just looks sominelike this. Especially since I know whose blood it is on his skin.
“It suits you,” I say, and mean it. “You look… true.”
“Alright then,” he purrs, cocking a brow. “As long as you like me…”
“I’ll always like you,” I breathe.
“Good. Because I intend to steal you.”
I giggle. “From whom?”
