Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Gage,” she whispers when I find that spot below her ear.
“River,” I answer, because her name is a vow.
We stumble to her bedroom in a tangle of laughter and want, bump the doorframe, shush each other and then fail at shushing. The sheets are cool, and she’s warm everywhere. I’m done for. She pulls me down and I go, gladly. We undress each other like a secret, slow where it matters, needy where it’s safe to be. Her hands shake; I kiss the tremor away.
“Hey,” I say, foreheads touching. “With me?”
“Completely.”
What happens next we keep for us—heat and breath and that feral sweetness that only shows up when trust does. I anchor her. She ruins me. We move together like we’ve been calibrating for this for years and finally hit perfect sync.
After, I roll onto my side and pull her in, an arm around her waist, my mouth in her hair. Our hearts slow together, a two-line graph easing down to the same baseline.
“I’m in love with you,” I say into the quiet before I can scare myself out of it.
She goes still in my arms, then melts like the words were the thing she was waiting to hear all along. “Good,” she whispers. “Because I’m already lost.”
I laugh, helpless and wrecked. “Terrible navigation skills.”
“Only with you,” she says, and pinches my side until I squeak, which she will deny in a court of law.
We lie there in the afterglow with the laptops still humming in the next room, proof waiting like loaded dice. The world remains dangerous, complicated, liable to bite.
But she’s curled into me, and I’ve got my hand splayed low on her stomach like a promise I intend to keep.
“We hit the party Friday,” I say into the dark. “We tag Helena, track her, catch her. We bring Psalm88 into the light.”
“And if she runs?”
“We run faster.”
She tips her face up, and I kiss her once, slow and certain. “Sleep,” I tell her. “Tomorrow we sharpen the knives.”
“Stay?” she asks.
“Always,” I say, and mean it.
THIRTY-FIVE
RIVER
There’s something about the sound of curling irons clicking open and closed, the scent of heat-activated hairspray, and a half-empty bottle of rosé on the counter that feels like home—even when nothing else in my life does.
Juno’s sitting cross-legged on my bed in leggings and an oversized hoodie that says Tech Wreck, sipping wine from a mug because I don’t own enough wine glasses. Her dark curls are pinned up with glittery butterfly clips like she raided a 90s prom.
Lark is pacing in front of my closet like it personally offended her. “River. Babe. I love you, but I cannot believe you still have this skirt.”
She holds up a pleated denim miniskirt like it’s a piece of ancient fossilized fabric.
“It’s vintage!” I defend, twisting slightly as I tug on the zipper of the little black dress I finally decided on. “Besides, you know I haven’t exactly been prioritizing my wardrobe lately.”
Juno snorts. “Because someone’s been too busy dodging blackmail, hacking into surveillance logs, and getting hot-and-heavy with the office’s hottest brooder.”
I throw a pillow at her. She ducks, laughing.
“Okay but seriously,” Juno says, tossing the pillow back. “Tonight is about gathering intel. Tagging Helena. Reading body language. Keeping your cool.”
“And also looking absolutely stunning while doing it,” Lark adds, holding up a red satin dress that’s definitely not mine. “I brought options.”
“You mean you brought your entire closet,” I tease, stepping into my strappy heels. “But thank you.”
Lark shrugs and finally pulls the red dress on over her head. It hugs her curves in all the right ways. She catches her reflection in the mirror and frowns, smoothing it down.
Juno narrows her eyes. “What’s with the face?”
“Nothing,” Lark says too quickly.
“Oh no. Don’t pull that with us,” I say, grabbing my makeup bag and sitting next to her. “Spill.”
Lark hesitates. Her fingers twist the fabric at her hip. “It’s just… tonight I have to go with Knight.”
“You say that like he’s a leper,” Juno mutters.
“I say that like he’s Gage’s best friend and has never seen me as anything more than the tagalong little sister who’s not really part of your little gang. Not really.”
I laugh. “Yes you are.”
“He thinks I’m annoying.”
Juno raises her brow. “Lark. Girl. Knight is not blind. Or stupid. You walk into that room in that dress, and he’s going to have to recite code algorithms in his head to keep from spontaneously combusting.”
Lark flushes, but the smallest flicker of hope crosses her face. “Do you think?”
“Oh, honey,” I say, reaching for my lipstick. “He already looks at you like he knows he’d destroy anyone who hurt you. He just doesn’t know what to do with those feelings yet.”
“Men are slow,” Juno says. “Like dial-up.”
We dissolve into giggles and for a minute, it’s like we’re just normal women getting ready for a party—not an op that could expose the identity of a dangerous manipulator with connections to blackmail, surveillance, and possible murder.