Fiona sits up abruptly. “You mean… both of you in the room?” Her face turns even redder. “Like, watching?”
Shathar nods, and my breath stops in my throat.
It is an absolutely ludicrous suggestion. And yet, imagining that… my mind quiets. I would have to see them being intimate together, which would hurt—but it would hurt far less than being left out.
“Think about it,” Shathar says. He steps out of the room and disappears down the hall.
When Fiona turns to me again, her mouth is hanging open. Then she shakes her head as if dispelling a daze.
“Do you think that would work?” she asks.
Slowly, I raise a hand to her face and brush my thumb over her cheek. “It might. I won’t know until… until we try it, I suppose.”
A big smile takes over her face. She throws herself at me, curling her arms around my neck, and I gasp a little at the force behind it.
“Please don’t go,” she whispers, hugging me tighter. “Please.”
With a resigned sigh, I hug her back. “The last thing I want is to leave you. So I will attempt this—for you.”
She sniffles against me. “Thank you.”
I hold her closer, hoping that this is the solution.
Chapter Nineteen
Fiona
The idea of losing Khesan hit me in the gut. I’ve come to crave his dedication and his surprising tenderness. I’d even miss his dancing. I want him here with me.
The following day, we try again to hang the Christmas lights before the party starts. Khesan successfully gets the rest strung up along the roof of the second floor, and then we all stand back and gaze at the house with pride.
The only thing I’m missing is an inflatable Santa. Oh well. I have limits.
We spend the afternoon cooking snacks for the party—cookies, marshmallow crispies, and tiny sandwiches—and preparing the drinks. We have apple cider, eggnog, spiked hot chocolate, you name it. I think I have everything ready.
Marguerite arrives early, and she’s in a surprisingly pleasant mood, smiling at all the decorations, even complimenting the tree. I don’t mention how we came to possess it.
“You did good,” she says. “I’m glad to get out of the house, too. The plumbers have been so loud, and now we have to replace the floor in the kitchen.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry, Margie.” I offer her a cookie. “Will this make it better?”
She laughs and eats it, nodding in appreciation. “Good job.”
“Wasn’t me.” I gesture at where Khesan is sipping apple cider at the kitchen island. “It’s all him.”
“You’re a baker?” Marguerite asks him.
Khesan shrugs. “I can do most anything if given proper instruction.”
“That’s the military training,” says Shathar. “I don’t measure at all when I cook.”
I giggle because it’s true. “You cook on vibes. Which is impressive when it’s all new to you.”
Then the guests start to arrive, most of them dressed in their ugliest Christmas sweaters. We’re holding a competition tonight for best ugly sweater, as determined by vote. Shathar is in charge of the drink station, and he slings cocktails like he was born to do it. Khesan keeps the mini-quiches flowing, putting a new batch of frozen ones in the oven every twenty minutes. I greet and socialize, keeping an eye on the music playlist.
“Wow,” says Amara when she and Roth’kar arrive. “This is badass. And look at them!” She points at Shathar and Khesan working in the kitchen alongside each other. “They’re getting along!”
“We’ve had some… challenges lately,” I explain. “But I think we got past it.”
