“Crescent House from now on,” I say, once I’m certain she’s alright. “Understood?”
She looks at me, her midnight eyes swimming with a pain she’s desperately trying to hide.
Were I anyone else, she might succeed. But pain is my specialty, and I know very well what it looks like.
I hover beside her for a long while, standing a little too close, but I can’t bring myself to move. Selfishly, watching her catch her breath is easing the dampener off my throat, and if I leave now, it might kill me, because the only thing I can think of as I stand here watching her inhale and exhale slowly is that Oliver St. Grey is lucky he’s dead.
If he weren’t, I’d kill him myself.
Chapter7
Semantics
IRIS
“Oh, Luna!”Kitty squeals. “This is so great!”
She bounces along beside me as we make our way through Trinity courtyard, and heads swivel in our direction when she lets out a little howl.
“I always thought you two were cute together. But I never thought you guys would?—”
My neck cracks as my head snaps around to look at her.
“Cute?” I ask, eyes nearly bulging from my head.
Kitty giggles.
“Yeah! I feel like it should have been obvious.”
She speaks animatedly, waving her hands around her head as if she’s swiping through every thought as it appears. But I’m stuck somewhere between cute and obvious.
“What do you mean obvious?”
“I don’t know. You’re just so similar, and you’re always flirting.” She shrugs but doesn’t look at me as we make our way down Pack Row. “I feel like I should have seen it coming.”
Similar? Flirting?
I may need to look up these words. Surely they do not mean what I think they mean if Kitty is using them in the same sentence as Elliot Cross and me.
Elliot and I could not be further from similar.
He is cocky and hot-headed. And I wouldn’t call what Elliot and I do flirting.
To me, it’s always felt more like a horse swatting at a fly.
But I don’t say any of this to Kitty. Elliot and I have a lie to keep up with. And honestly, she looks too happy to spoil it.
“Now we can be pack sisters!”
She squeals again. This time, roping me into a tight, one-armed hug, and she doesn’t let go until I start to wheeze and tap her arm.
“Oh, sorry,” she mutters, sliding her glasses further up her nose.
“Don’t get too excited,” I say. “I don’t want you to be disappointed if it doesn’t work out.”
At this point, I think she’d be more devastated than any of us.
“Why wouldn’t it work out?” she says, ever the optimist.
