Page 85 of Winterveil

It was not the most subtle ploy to dismiss Crispin, but Julian didn’t argue. Somewhere along the way it had become very easy for Klaudia to persuade him.

“All right,” Julian said. He stepped away from the table and jerked his chin at Crispin. “Come on.”

Crispin, to his credit, followed him obediently. They ascended the stairs to the mezzanine. As Julian opened the door to the girls’ room, he wondered if Klaudia had really left any files there, or if he was expected to invent some other reason to delay Crispin.

Julian watched him. He had a slight build, his limbs graceful and sinuous, his silver hair silken-looking. The bones of his face were delicate, lending him an almost feminine appearance. They both stood in the path of the light pouring in from the window, gridding the carpet in pale gold and making the room seem hazy, slightly surreal.

Crispin closed the door behind them.

“You stare at her,” he said quietly.

His soft, airy voice brushed against Julian’s skin. “Who?”

Crispin didn’t answer, but he cast his gaze toward one of the beds. It was neatly made up, the duvet smoothed and the sheets tucked under the mattress. The rigid precision could only have been Klaudia’s doing.

“No, I don’t,” Julian said. Even to his own ears it was unconvincing.

Crispin cocked his head. “You don’t seem very happy.”

At that, Julian let out an abrupt laugh. “What tipped you off?”

The surrealness of the situation multiplied as Crispin took a step toward him. One careful pace, and then another, until he was standing within arm’s reach.

“I can make you feel better,” Crispin said.

Heat shot up Julian’s spine. He took a step backward, and Crispin moved forward to close the distance between them. His eyes were liquid-dark. Julian felt the rising of his pulse alongside a stiffening between his thighs.

He grasped Crispin by the sleeve and thrust him away. Too hard. Crispin stumbled and let out a small, pained gasp. Instantly, Julian was hammered with regret.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, too bewildered by the events of the moment to articulate anything else. “Just—”

Crispin moved toward him again.

“Don’t you want to?”

“What are you talking about?” Julian demanded hoarsely. But he didn’t push him back this time. In fact, when Crispin reached out his arm, Julian grasped it and guided it to his belt.

Crispin knelt in front of him. Muffled voices rose from downstairs. Julian pressed his hand against the wall and succumbed.

Back in his room that evening, Julian felt defiled, dirty. He curled onto his bed and pulled the covers over his head, the scene playing on the insides of his eyelids. His hand burned where he’d palmed Crispin’s hair, the locks of it threaded so tightly between his fingers that it left red marks in his skin.

But when he worked himself over that night, it wasn’t Crispin he thought about. It was Klaudia.

Twenty-Nine

Spring 2037

Camp Peary, Virginia

Nadiya couldn’t sleep.

Outside, the sky had been shaded an artificial black, pricked through with false stars. Silvery light bled from the pretending moon. She rolled over in bed, once and then again, restless. The springs of the mattress creaked.

All I ever did was care about you.

Only a few feet away, Giselle was curled in her bed, red-gold hair unfurling across the pillow. The distance between them was intractable. In the half darkness, Nadiya watched the slow rise and fall of her body beneath the sheets and listened to the soft rhythm of her breathing.

You care about everything—especially things you shouldn’t.