30. Tamayo
TAMAYO
W hoever came up with the idea of fucking someone out of your system was a fool.
The more I get of Zarina, the more I struggle to hold myself back. Her taste is on my tongue, her smell on my fingers, her moans in my ear. I can’t get the sight of her kneeling before me, ready and yearning, out of my head. And I haven’t touched her since the Den. I need a fucking mouth guard with all the teeth grinding.
The lack of Zarina in my daily life since last weekend isn’t the only reason my jaw aches. The list is too long to recount, but at this exact moment, each note from the quartet she hired for this party sets me further on edge. It’s like she asked them to play only discordant horror scores. I readjust the ridiculous cape she picked out for my costume and force myself to relax.
“At least you don’t look like a clown.” Darius pulls his cuffs down again, his all-white suit meant to emulate the white rabbit. A pocket watch chain hangs from his waistcoat, and a monocle—real and usable—sits pinned to his breast pocket, its chain stretching to his lapels .
The door to our parlor opens, and Pat peeks around the frame.
“Next time, we source our own outfits,” I grumble.
Darius blanches. “Next time?”
“Left to your own devices, you two would’ve arrived in all black and said you were ravens.” Zarina sweeps into the room, her gown’s gossamer skirts wide and brushing the floor. The bodice is a translucent corset, with red and black color blocks and small hearts embroidered throughout, and upon her head rests a delicate tiara with rubies and black opals.
“My Queen of Hearts.” I offer her a bow.
She curtsies in return. “My knave.”
I roll my shoulders like I can shrug off the cape snugly clasped to my suit. “Is that who I am?”
“Yes.” She replaces my hair that fell out of place, bringing her face close enough that I could duck my chin and plant a peck on her nose. But I don’t. Her lips are painted bright red, her eyes smokey blacks, with white hearts at the crest of her cheekbones. She settles back on her heels with her hands clasped in front of her. “And you look quite handsome.”
I scoff. “I feel like a dandy.”
“A dandy?” She chuckles. “Are we in a Shakespearean play?”
“We might as well be Romeo and Juliet,” I say.
“Marcus Accardi is far more dangerous than Paris.”
“I never said it was a perfect comparison.”
Zarina plays with a bracelet at her wrist—tiny black diamonds in the shapes of hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds. She twists it round and round until she plants her palm over it like she’s trying to stop herself fidgeting. “Pat, Darius, please wait outside.”
Pat pushes off the wall to open the door, holding it open for Darius.
He sighs, heading for the hall. “What’re you dressed as? ”
They glance down at their suit, the velvet patterned like snakeskin in a rich, bottle green. “Bill the Lizard.”
“Why is yours better than mine?” Darius whines—actually whines. I almost yank out my phone to hit record and ask him to do it again.
Pat pats him on the back. “Zarina knows you don’t like her.”
“Petty,” he gripes.
They let the door go. “That she is.”
“I can hear you both,” Zarina snaps.
“We know!” they call in unison as the door finally shuts.
I share an amused look with Zarina, her teeth biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “I think Pat’s been a bad influence on him,” I say.
She gasps in fake affront. “Excuse me, Pat is an angel. It’s Darius who’s influenced them.”
“They’re more stubborn than you. How could anyone possibly influence them?”
The smallest laugh falls out of her mouth, tinny and hollow even to my ears. I want to reach out, take her hands in mine, offer comfort in some way, but I don’t. Just last week, I touched every part of her, drank her in, watched her fall apart. But today, I don’t know whether I can touch her. Or if I’ll ever have the chance again.
She sucks in a bracing breath.
“Princess?”
“We’re scheduled to be announced in a few minutes.” She smooths down her dress. “Are you ready?”
“I’m fine.” I want to ask, Are you?
She nods too much. “You remember what to do?”
“Yes, princess. I read the brief.” It was the only interaction we had all week other than random text messages, all initiated by me. It might give anyone else a complex. Not me, though. Disappointment and frustration have definitely not been mixing in my gut like a cruel cocktail, poisoning me for days .
She pulls her phone out of the folds of her dress and checks the time. Her fingers quiver just barely. “And no questions?”
Fuck this. I close the short distance between us and pluck her phone from her, tossing it on the armchair beside us, and take hold of her hand with mine. Breath catches in her throat as she cranes her neck to meet my gaze. “My only question is: Why have you been hiding all week?”
She swallows, gold-threaded eyes flicking between mine. “There was a lot to do.”
“So you weren’t avoiding me?” I slip a finger under her chin, rest my thumb below her lips.
Her tongue swipes a hair’s breadth away from the edge of my nail. “You distract me.”
I lean in until my nose brushes hers. “Perhaps you could use the distraction.”
She grips my wrist, lifting my thumb to her lips and pressing a small kiss against it. “After this stupid fucking party.”
“Deal.” I press my own kiss to the back of her hand before offering her my elbow. “Shall we?”
She swipes her phone off the chair, shoving it into a pocket hidden in the skirt of her dress, and takes my arm. We stand still for a moment, Zarina inhaling a steeling breath as I cup her fingers. She stands straight, face set in stern arrogance. An expression I recognize for what it is—a mask.
She squeezes my bicep. “Don’t fuck up.”
“I’ll do my best, princess.” I knock on the door for Darius to open it.