“They always do.” Picking something shiny off her shoulder, he narrowed his dark eyes. “Why do you have glitter on you?”
“Don’t ask,” Quin said dryly.
“At the strip club again? I told you to keep your affairs a secret,” he chided playfully, and this time, she didn’t stop her eye-roll.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let the cameras see.”
“I do have an image to uphold,” he said pompously, resting an arm over the back of the loveseat behind her shoulders. “Your cousin called me about the flowers.”
With a groan, she rubbed at the space between her eyes where a headache was forming. “Good gods, why is everyone making this such a big deal? They all have to know what this is.”
“I think your mother enjoys the pomp and circumstance, regardless of sincerity. As for the rest, I’m sure they prefer believing in the facade. We are incredible actors, after all.”
At that, Quin snorted. Acting had never been her strong suit. “Speak for yourself.”
“I am,” Waryn sniffed, chuckling when she jabbed him in the side with her elbow. “Ooph, be gentle with me, darling. I’m fragile.”
“You’re full of shit.” Turning back to her computer, she scrolled and took another sip of scotch. “What did my cousin say?”
“Something about yellow being veryinright now.”
“Sounds riveting.”
Soft fingertips ghosted over the back of Quin’s neck as he said, “You know, you could at least pretend to tolerate marrying me. It would do wonders in selling it to the papers.”
“I do tolerate you. I may even like you a little bit,” she said without looking away from her screen, but she caught his affronted gasp from the corner of her eye.
“Such poetry!” he said dramatically, before he gripped the back of her neck gently, forcing her to look at him as he dropped the flamboyant act. “I will take care of the details for the party. I’ll tell them that you’re swamped with work or something.”
Genuine fondness squeezed her chest. “Thank you.”
“I don’t have to propose yet,” he said, thumb stroking comfortingly. “Just because your mother is pushing—”
She cut him off with a slight shake of her head. “Might as well get it over with.”
“Be still my heart,” he muttered, softening it with a wink. “You know we don’t have to do this, right?”
“Don’t we?” she asked before she could stop it.
Something like pity cut across Waryn’s face, but it melted away instantly. He really was a better actor than she was. “It isn’t a sacrifice for me.”
Of course not, because he was asexual—and aromantic, Quin thought—and had no desire for a relationship beyond platonic companionship. Because an arranged marriage into a prominent family with good connections was a no-brainer. Because he wasn’t giving up anything he wasn’t willing to lose.
For some strange reason, she thought of Glyma. The Succubus was practically a stranger, but she represented what Quin would lose—waslosing. Or perhaps what she’d already lost. The moment she realized she was a lesbian, she’d resigned herself to a future of tolerable misery. The only heir to Claryn Duboi’s family dynasty couldn’t be a carpet-muncher; the family wouldn’t allow it.
The only option was to box it up, secure it with chains and padlocks, and shove it deep, deep down where she could forget itexisted. She wouldn’t disappoint her parents. She would do what was expected; she would fulfill her responsibilities.
So what if she would never know what it was like to touch soft, full curves or listen to the feminine sigh of a woman satisfied and love-drunk? It didn’t matter that she was built to love and be loved by another woman. It didn’t matter that she never would be.
This would be enough. It had to be.
“Propose at the party,” Quin said, almost sternly. “Just don’t make it a production.”
Surprisingly, Waryn’s shoulders slumped, as if in disappointment. “Okay.” With a sigh, he stood. “I’m heading to bed.”
“Okay.” She returned her attention back to her computer, jolting when he leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“Don’t stay up too late,” his words whispered over her brow. “You look tired.”
