TWENTY-NINE #3
“I’m sorry.” His voice is so low that I recall the sound he made the moment his cock slid inside me, and something clenches hard between my legs.
He leans against the doorframe, already dressed for the evening.
He isn’t wearing a uniform, but rather a dark coat tailored high at the neck and cut close to showcase the powerful lines of his body.
It’s sinfully brutal despite how it covers his skin and hides his vestiges.
He looks like temptation and salvation collided with each other and he was the glorious result. He takes a single step toward me as if he knows exactly how close my knees are to buckling. How much my fingers itch to reach for him.
Get it together. You have an audience. I suck down a steadying breath. “Bishop, I—”
I stop short, glancing back to where Shea is carefully laying her gown on the bed. Vessica is inspecting hers by the window. Both far too absorbed in their dresses to be believed.
Bishop hesitates when he sees them. He doesn’t just pause. He actually falters, looking more frazzled than I’ve ever seen him.
Not that I’ve ever seen him frazzled.
Except when I reached below the water and …
I shut out the tiny, unhelpful voice that seems determined to force another reckless decision from me.
He braces his hands on the doorframe as if he’s choosing how to retreat.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, but this time he adds, “I thought you were alone.”
The blue in his eyes burns as bright as the tip of a flame, the heat there warming my own skin—and I know exactly what would have happened if I had been alone.
His gaze flicks past me to the mirror, the discarded boots, the open wardrobe, then back to skim over the mixed and matched secondhand uniform I’m wearing. A muscle strains in his neck. “Are you coming to the party?”
Suddenly, I’m not sure if I should. I don’t know how I’m going to survive it, orbiting the room around him, pretending that there’s nothing between us.
How I’m going to keep the promise I made at Kieren’s grave.
I swallow the raw feeling. “Yes. We’re getting dressed now.”
He nods once. Then again. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, but he leans closer, still clutching the doorframe, his knuckles going white. So close that I remember how his lips taste.
“Tonight … I …” He stops, exhaling through his nose, and tries again. “Save me the Turning.”
I forget how to breathe. Forget how to speak. Every word I know is replaced by this one request to start the new year. Together.
“As friends, as whatever you need,” he says, already stepping back like he can’t stay a moment longer. “I’ll wait for you.”
His eyes linger on mine for a beat too long to pretend he’s speaking only about tonight. Heat pools low in my belly, and when Bishop closes the door softly, I stare at it long enough that Shea clears her throat. The sound startles me, freeing me from whatever spell he just cast.
When I finally turn, Vessica’s dark brows lift a fraction, but she says nothing.
Shea, on the other hand, drops fully onto the bed, bouncing once as her grin splits wide. “Soooo,” she says brightly, crossing her arms. “How is training going?”
“Fine.” I stalk to the vanity, trying to remember what I was doing before Bishop just turned my world upside down.
Again.
I sit and reach for a pot of rouge, stopping when I look in the mirror and find my face is roughly the color of a ripe tomato. I grab the powder instead and dab at my cheeks like it might undo whatever damage has already been done.
Shea squints at me in the reflection. “You can’t pretend like that didn’t just happen.” She leans forward, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you kiss him?”
I make a noncommittal noise and start on a second layer of powder. It still doesn’t help the situation on my cheeks.
That only winds her up more. “Seven hells,” she breathes. “Did you?”
“They slept together,” Vessica says calmly, starting to strip out of her uniform. “And Arden broke his heart.”
“What?” Shea shrieks—and I yell at the exact same time.
I spin on the stool toward Vessica. “How did you … Were you …?” My mind whirls with every possible explanation and keeps landing on the only reasonable answer. “Did he say something?”
She slips out of her pants. “No.”
Relief and indignation collide, and I sputter, “Then how did you know?”
“I didn’t,” she admits.
Void swallow me. Nothing gets past her. Me, on the other hand? “You were bluffing.”
“Not exactly.” She slips the gown from its hanger, admiring it for a moment. “He’s been in a better mood since you arrived. Lighter. Less … him.” She looks right at me. “But a few days ago, that stopped.”
My stomach drops.
“Plus, it was written all over his face when you opened the door,” she says so matter-of-factly that I can’t scrounge up even an ounce of anger.
Shea flops backward on the bed, pressing a hand to her chest. “Will you meet him for the Turning?”
Of course they heard him ask. It seems they didn’t miss anything—even the things that weren’t said.
But Turning the Threshold? Taking that step even as friends? “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”
Shea groans with disappointment, but Vessica meets my eyes again and says in a low voice, “If you aren’t sure, don’t. The door always remembers.”
Because once you cross certain thresholds, there’s no returning.
Vessica steps into her gown, but it feels like she’s stuck a dagger into my back.
Only it’s not a training exercise for me.
It’s a warning.