I relax into it despite every instinct screaming that this is dangerous, that letting myself depend on this comfort is a weakness I can't afford. Let myself feel it anyway, the care and the relief and the strange intimacy of being held together by someone who has no obligation to care whether I'm suffering.
My hands settle on her hips automatically, holding her steady, keeping her positioned exactly where she's blocking the worst of the light.
Dangerous. This is dangerous. But I can't make myself care right now.
I pull her closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us, my mouth near her ear. "Don't startle."
Then I kiss her.
It starts as performance, public affection for the benefit of anyone watching from below. A calculated display designed to sell the engagement, to make it real in the eyes of witnesses.
But it shifts almost immediately, the performance dissolving into something genuine and hungry and entirely unplanned.
Her lips part under mine, soft and warm and willing. Her hand tangles in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that makes me forget about the migraine entirely. The ice and cloth slip, forgotten, as she kisses me back with an intensity that matches my own.
I deepen it, one hand moving to the back of her neck to angle her head exactly where I want it, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks. Forget where we are, forget why we're here, forget everything except the taste of her and the small sounds she makes when I bite her lower lip and the way she fits against me like she was designed for exactly this purpose.
We're making out. Fully. Lost in it completely, all pretense of performance abandoned in favor of genuine want.
"Well, well. Didn't take you long to find yourself a cheap little whore to chase away the grief for your dead father."
The voice cuts through everything, shrill and vicious and intimately familiar. Nails on glass. Poison wrapped in false sweetness.
Valentina.
Lily goes rigid in my arms, every muscle locking, the warm pliant woman from two seconds ago replaced by something carved from ice.
I hear Artan move immediately, his voice low and controlled as he intercepts Valentina. "Let's take this conversation elsewhere."
The sound of heels clicking away, Artan's steady footsteps guiding her firmly toward the exit before she can cause more damage.
But the damage is done.
Lily stands, pulling away from me, taking all the warmth with her. The lights hit my eyes again, unfiltered and vicious. The migraine surges back with brutal intensity, pain spiking through my skull hard enough to make my vision white out completely for a second.
"I think that's enough," Lily says. Her voice is tight, controlled in the way that means she's holding onto composure by force of will alone. "I want to go."
"Lily, let me—"
"It's okay." She's already moving, already creating distance, physical and emotional space opening up between us like a chasm. "It's nothing. You don't owe me any explanation."
But that's the problem. That kiss wasn't nothing. Not for me. And I need her to know that, I need her to understand that whatever just happened was real, was genuine, had nothing to do with performance or appearances or maintaining the lie.
I need her to know that I have nothing but disdain for that woman.
Except she's already walking away, and I can't see well enough to follow without stumbling, and the words I need are locked somewhere behind the pain fracturing through my skull.
So I just sit there in the flashing lights and the pounding music, tasting her on my lips and watching her blurred shape disappear into the crowd.
Alone again.
Like I probably deserve.
17
LILY
The knife moves across the cutting board in a steady rhythm. Carrot first, the blade slicing through orange flesh with satisfying precision. Then celery, the stringy ribs separating cleanly under pressure. Finally onion, the sharp smell making my eyes water though I barely notice anymore.
