Chapter 65
With just a few days until the graduation masquerade, the school descends into a flurry of final exams and event preparation.
I spend half my time with Domino and Journey, shopping for dresses and planning our night, and the other half designing the break-in with Rook and Edward.
Our little “project” seems to have invigorated Edward.
He’s animated again, coming up with ideas and theories, downloading maps, and scoping possible entrances and exits.
He even paid a visit to Trinity’s parents and swiped a key card from Mr. Robins so we can access his office and, more importantly, his computers, once we get inside.
Throughout it all, I try to be normal. I try not to let that encounter with Greta in the tunnels throw me off. Raine was a Keeper, and now he’s gone. He left me and never confessed. I’m desperate to ask my mother what she knows, but I can’t put it into a text that could be monitored by The Shield.
She’ll be at the masquerade, and I’m hoping I can talk to her then.
I also haven’t shared what Greta told me with Rook. I’m not sure what’s holding me back. I’m ashamed of what happened. It feels like some of this was my fault.
I do plan to ask Edward if he can look for information about Raine’s death once he hacks the government computers. I need to know if there’s more to the story than we’ve been told.
I also don’t tell Rook that my father might know I’m a Keeper. Maybe Greta was mistaken? Maybe it was something she told herself to villainize him. Whatever the case, I’m not ready to discuss it yet—with anyone.
It’s the night before the party, and I’m tossing and turning. Dreaming of long tunnels and shadows snatching me from darkened corners. My mother’s face and a string of bruises on her neck. Rook being thrown off cliffs and high towers.
Then someone is gently shaking me awake.
“Poet.” Rook’s deep voice slices through the dark. “Wake up.”
My eyes pop open, and I stare up at him, disoriented, breathing heavily.
“You were calling out,” he says.
I sink back into the pillow and brush a piece of hair from my forehead. “Nightmares.”
He drops down to the side of my bed. “You okay?”
“Just anxious about tomorrow, I think.”
He takes my hand and holds it close to his chest. “Makes sense.”
“Will you lie with me?” I ask, and he nods.
“Of course.”
He climbs over me and settles on the far side against the wall.
“The storm isn’t helping,” I whisper. A bright flash illuminates the window, a soft amethyst glow highlighting the contours of his face and reflecting in the piercing in his brow.
We haven’t had an opportunity to visit the outskirts with everything going on, and the incessant itching is starting to get to me.
“I know,” he whispers back. “We’ll head out as soon as this is over.”
We. He says it so casually, but I think this is what we’re becoming.
We. Us.
It’s at that moment that I feel connected to him by more than just the touch of our hands and the brush of our knees.
We are bound by this secret that draws a line between us despite every difference and every barrier.
An understanding forged from the need to spend a lifetime hiding in the light.
Maybe if we’re successful tomorrow, we won’t have to hide anymore.
I smile and reach out to touch his cheek before resting my hand on his chest, the rapid thump of his heart vibrating up my arm. He closes his eyes and exhales softly, his fingers trailing against my stomach. I turn ever so slightly toward him.
Thanks to final exams and plotting our break-in, we haven’t had much time alone. I bury my nose in the curve of his throat and inhale deeply with a gentle whimper.
“What are you doing?” he asks with what sounds like barely restrained control.
I peer up. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been right across the room.”
“It isn’t close enough.”
His hazel eyes shine in a flash of purple, and a smirk curls on his lips as we shift until we’re pressed together, our mouths hovering an inch apart.
Slowly, he lowers his head and kisses me, his warm lips fusing with mine. His fingers twist in the fabric of my tank top while our thighs and knees tangle together. Slowly, his hand slides higher, trailing up my stomach, where his fingertips brush the bottom of my breasts.
“Rook,” I moan. “I want . . .” I can’t seem to articulate my thoughts.
“What do you want, Poet?” he asks. “Tell me.”
“I want you. All of you.”
He makes a pained sort of sound as his hand travels back down my stomach and teases the edge of my sleep shorts.
“I want to touch you,” he whispers. “I want to touch you so badly it hurts. Sometimes it’s all I can think about.”
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
His mouth closes over mine, and his hand slides lower, dipping past my waistband, gently finding the place where I need him. I gasp into his mouth as his warm fingers play over me, making my hips writhe.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he moans against my lips. “Strong and brilliant. I just . . . I just wasn’t expecting this. You. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Rook,” I gasp, clinging to his shoulders while his fingers tease out ribbons of satin heat.
He smiles against the curve of my throat, his hand moving between my thighs, bringing me to the edge before he kisses me again, and then I burst in a glittering shower of sparks. I moan against him as he continues teasing and touching, leaving me breathless and limp under the warmth of his body.
Slowly, he slides his hand away as we kiss again. My fingers trail over his stomach, the planes of muscle and dusting of hair. I drift lower, running a fingertip over the waist of his pants.
“Poe,” he gasps when I shift lower, feeling his hardness pressing against the fabric, and he exhales with a soft whimper.
“I want to touch you, too,” I whisper.
“Skies, please, Poet. I’m losing my mind.”
My hand returns to his stomach and then slips lower, down past his waistband, where I find him hot, heavy, wanting. My fingers wrap around him before I slowly, carefully slide my hand down. His hips thrust, and I grip him tighter while he urges me on.
“Like that,” he rasps. “Yes. More.”
More. I want so much more.
A minute later, I feel him release with a shuddering moan.
Eventually, he pulls me up and touches his forehead to mine. We stay like that for a long minute, not moving, just breathing, just existing together. I’m not sure how many perfect moments we’re afforded during a life, but this feels like it might be one of mine.
“We should get some sleep; we have a big day ahead of us,” he says before he grins. “Tomorrow, when this is all over, I want to celebrate with you. All night. Until the sun comes up and neither of us can walk straight.”
I giggle and return his smile.
Then, I reach up to kiss him and whisper into the amethyst shadows, “I can’t wait.”