So I’m going to check the room. Just a tiny peek. It’s not even a risk. Not really. He’s been drinking and by the way he was slouched against the door, it was obvious that it was affecting him. He’s probably already passed out.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk to the door, grasp the handle, and, ever so slowly, twist. It doesn’t squeak and when I apply a little pressure, it opens just a crack. Just enough for me to see what’s inside.
I gasp. Not loud, but Finn, who is not sleeping, but only hunched over on the… desk—I’m not sure if that’s the right word for circular piece of glass in the middle of the room, but there’s no time to really take in what I’m actually looking at—because he stirs, straightens up, and is just about to look over his shoulder when I pull back, leaving the door slightly ajar, and start running across the room, back to the bookshelf.
I’m just reaching for it when behind me he says, “Clara?”
I stop, holding my breath.Clara? How could he mistake me for Clara? Not only do I have red hair and she has blonde, but he just sent her into the tower like an hour ago. Is hethatdrunk?
A smile creeps up my face. Maybe he is.
“Clara.” Her name comes out sharp this time.
“Yes,” I answer. But I do not turn.
He exhales. “I knew that was you.”
I hold my breath in, not daring to move. Am I caught? I’m not sure. He’s wasted. Not sloppy wasted, though. He’s not slurring his words like the men down-city in the taverns where the whores work. But I can smell the whiskey from here. Plus, there is no way to mistake me for Clara Birch if one is not completely smashed. Forget about my red hair, we’re not even the same height.
When I hear footsteps coming towards me, I nearly panic and run. I could outrun him, I’m sure of it. There are a lot of stairs. He’ll probably trip and fall if he gives chase. My chances are good. But it’s too late, because he grabs hold of my shoulder and for a moment I think he’ll spin me around and there’s no way he’s drunk enough to mistake my face for hers.
But he doesn’t turn me. He presses his chest into my back, slips his hands over my hips, leans his face into my neck, and urges me to step forward. I don’t know what else to do, so I just comply. But I soon realize there’s a couch in my way. The back of one, actually. It’s facing the windows, like he and Clara might’ve spent their nights up here stargazing.
When I reach it, I expect him to stop pushing me forward—because obviously, there is nowhere else to go. But instead, he places his hand between the middle of my shoulder blades, pressing and urging me to bend over.
“Remember when I bent you over this couch the other night and fucked you, Clara?”
Um. What the hell is happening? More importantly, what do I do?
But again, I don’t have much of a choice. I mean, I could scream or something. Wriggle away, possibly. But he’s pretty insistent. And if I do either of those things, he’ll snap out of whatever delusion he’s currently existing in and I’ll be… I don’t even know. Caught, obviously. Punished. And I don’t think Auntie would come to my defense, either. It’s too risky. We’ve come too far. The Rebellion is infinitely more important than one teenager who was stupid enough to get caught on her very first assignment.
I would be kicked out of the Little Sisters, disgraced, and sent back down-city to spend the rest of my life regretting my stupidity on this night. Harlow or Ceela would probably take my place as lead infiltrator, and that would be that. My life’s work over before it started.
Fuck that. I will not scream and I will not run. If he wants to think I’m Clara, then that’s who I am. “Of course I do, Finn, darling. How could I ever forget that? It was amazing.”
He huffs out a small laugh, pulling me back up into a standing position. “You liked it. You slapped me, but you liked it. You came three times, didn’t you?”
“Mmmmhmm,” I hum. But for freak’s sake, what the hell? I am not a virgin and I’ve had my share of boyfriends over the past couple of years, but… yeah, I don’t know what to do with this. They’re into dirty talking?
I dunno. I’m having a hard time picturing Clara Birch dirty-talking. Or even being on the listening end of it. She’s so… I mean, I don’t actually know her, but ‘uptight’ is the first word that comes to my mind. She’s rigid and prim.
And Finn, right now, seems very much the opposite of that.
His fingertips slide up over the curve of my right hip, pausing for a moment before gliding around the front of me. His otherhand finds my bare arm—nearly stiff at my side from the shock of his touch—and slips down to circle my wrist. Like he’s afraid I’ll run, and if I were to try, he would stop me.
“Clara. You know I love you, right? You know I didn’t have any choice tonight, right?”
I nod my head but can’t seem to find any words. And anyway, I’d rather not speak if I can help it. He’s immersed inside this delusion at the moment, but I doubt it would take much to bring him out of it. One wrong step, I imagine. So I’m going to stay silent.
The hand on my stomach inches up the center of my ribcage, the other still threatening to hold me captive. His fingertips spread across my front until his entire palm is between my breasts.
I hold my breath as he leans into my neck, an explosion of chills erupting all over my body when he whispers, “Do you want me to make you feel good, Clara? Should we do it like we did that night?”
My eyes are wide, a war of desires wages in my mind, and I shudder.
“You do, don’t you?” He kisses my neck.
And I swear, I don’t mean to moan, but it slips out. I can feel him smiling against the tender skin just under my ear.
