Towel hiked high, she exits the bathroom. After a week of living with her, this view is becoming normal, but it never stops knocking breath from my lungs. An impossible feat, based on science—a person can’t hold their breath forever—but somehow, this woman makes it so.
With a double-take, her peel of laughter distracts me from her water-kissed skin. “I knew it! Youdowatch the shows. I agree, by the way, Lucy had to go. It was a test to see if you were paying attention.”
They got addicting. The stupid, pointless drama people invent all in the name of love, ‘survival’— they’re not truly in danger—or money. Regardless, I’ve been watching more and more of them, downright tracking each one and almost—almost—anticipating the next.
“And?”
She shakes her head, laughing as she continues for her bedroom. “You’re no longer allowed to make fun of them.”
Once her door’s shut, I head to my room to dress in jeans and a black shirt to help me fit in like she requested.
My gun remains beneath my mattress. I’ve stopped taking it to classes, figuringifher boyfriend is Vitale and he returns, shooting him point-blank on campus isn’t what I’m here for. Zeno needs a photo, not war.
Even if shooting him sounds pretty fucking good given how he hurt Serafina.
At a party, the worst thing that’ll happen to Serafina is a drunken moron slobbering on her, or she won’t be sober enough to walk home. Both don’t require a firearm, so I leave it and grab a knife instead…just to be safe.
Living with Anastasia taught me how long women take to get ready when they want to. When my sister prepares for her performances, I swear, she’s expecting a crowd to be on the stagewith her, because it makes no sense why she slathers on that much makeup when the audience isn’t close enough to see.
Two hours after the sundown, Serafina’s door cracks open, and I stand.
And nearly end up back on my ass at the sight.
She’s wearing a dress tinier than I’m aware they make; black silk clinging high on her thighs and low on her chest, her breasts close to tumbling out. It reminds me of the kind of outfits Ana would wear on her nights out with Vanessa, but my sister never made me remotely care or pay enough attention to count the inches from top to bottom. Whereas, if Serafina breathes too deeply, bends, or even just fucking moves, I’ll be committing murder when some fucker looks at her.
A sudden, strange thought. One driven to protect her, and for her siblings, who wouldn’t like hearing about some dick harassing her. At least, that’s how I explain the tensing of my nerves, because nothing else makes sense. Any other possibility is…confusing.
Her hair, normally left down or bound in a ponytail, is curled in gentle waves that frame her face and cause her eyes to look bigger. And those fucking eyes… A smoky shadow encompasses them, making them brighter, twinkling if that’s possible. Her lips are shiny, her lashes impossibly long.
I catalogue everything about her.
Because I have to. So I know what Serafina looks like when I’m tracking her through the party.
Turns out, I do need my gun. For her own good, of course. For Zeno’s sister. For Vanessa’s half-sister. For my job.
Not because the thought of some wasted kid placing his hands on her makes me want to remove them.
What is happening to me?
While I’m studying her, she’s doing the same to me, taking in my jeans with an arched brow. “Maybe you’ll fit in after all.”
She won’t. She’ll stand out in every way, right and wrong.
For once, my head doesn’t thump because of noise. For once, the discomfort of being near people isn’t an issue. For once, I’m not counting or tapping my finger to stay calm in any manner possible.
For once, I do nothing.
While I’m too busy staring, trying to list every reason why she’s merely an assignment, she shuffles, her fingers clutching the side of the dress assholes will dream of peeling from her body.
An image that causes my head to go staticky again.
“Do I look okay?”
Okay? She’s asking if she…looks okay?I don’t have the words to give her a half-respectable answer, one that toes the line of propriety and respect for her, for her brother, for my Pakhan.
She’s more thanokay.
“You look great,” I manage, a strange tingle in the back of my throat, like I’m choking on my tongue, except that isn’t possible. Emotions that are utterly new course through me.
