Now that I’ve been pulled back to reality, I’m realizing I should probably go to bed myself, before my inhibitions sink any lower.
“I think I’ll head out, too,” I say to Miles.
“I’ll walk you,” he replies, not trying to argue with me.
We leave alongside Hedeon and Cat, the four of us sticking together until we reach the junction point where Cat needs to head south toward the Undercroft, and I go north to the Solar.
The night air is crisp and windless. Only a few lights shine out from the windows of Kingmakers, allowing the blanket of stars overhead to glitter dense and brilliant. Hedeon looks up into the sky moodily, ignoring Cat now that they’re not dancing anymore.
Cat is so exhausted she can barely walk straight. Her classes are hard on her. She’s not used to this level of activity every day. Besides Combat, Stealth, and Environmental Adaptation, which can all be extremely physical, the conditioning classes require us to go for long cross-country runs down in the River Bottoms, as well as grueling workouts in the gym. Even Marksmanship classes are strenuous—my hands and arms ache after a long session of shooting.
I give Cat a quick hug as we part ways, saying, “Sleep in tomorrow if you can.”
She nods sleepily.
I watch her and Hedeon walk away, ensuring that Hedeon stays right by her.
Then it’s just me and Miles, alone on the dark, empty campus.
Somehow this feels even more intimate than dancing pressed tight together.
I’m shy, all of a sudden.
Miles breaks the silence between us.
“Did you make those?” He nods toward my paper wings, composed of hundreds of individually-cut feathers, each with its own unique design, like a snowflake.
“Not a chance,” I say. “That was all Cat. She’s so artistic. She was supposed to go to art school this year, before I fucked it up.”
“What do you mean?”
I tell him about the engagement party and Rocco’s surprise visit to my house.
We’re walking up toward the Solar, slowly because neither of us is in a hurry. The thick sod muffles our footsteps.
“That’s not your fault,” Miles says, frowning.
“It is, though. When I disobey my father, he always takes it out on Cat. I knew that beforehand. When I rebel, she suffers.”
Remembering that immutable fact makes me realize that I’m making the same mistake all over again. I spent the night at the party, dancing and drinking with Miles, heedless of the consequences that might follow.
Reading my thoughts, Miles takes my hand. His hand is large and strong, and immensely warm.
“Your cousins weren’t here tonight,” he says. “None of Rocco’s friends, either.”
“They’ll still hear. Everybody talks.”
Miles doesn’t bother to deny that—he knows it’s true.
“Tell me about your marriage contract,” he says.
“I haven’t even read it,” I admit. “I wasn’t part of the negotiations.”
“Do you know what your father’s getting out of the deal? What’s in it for Rocco’s family?”
I explain it to him as best I understand, starting with the wars amongst the Galician clans, and ending with everything I know about my father’s business, and the Princes’.
Miles takes it all in, occasionally asking clarifying questions. This is something I’ve noticed about Miles—he’s an information-gatherer. He’s good at asking just the right questions to figure out what’s really going on.
When I’m done talking, he stays quiet a while, considering.
“There’s a personal element on Rocco’s side, isn’t there?” he asks me.
“Do you mean, is he in love with me?” I say. “I wouldn’t call it love.”
“He’s fixated,” Miles says.
“Yes. We’ve been betrothed since I was twelve. He’s been planning what he’ll do with me once we’re married for eight years now. He’s more than fixated—he’s obsessed.”
Miles’ expression is serious as he looks at me. In the infirmary, I realized that Miles has eyes of a color I’ve never seen before—a pure, clear gray. Under the starlight they shine almost silver, much lighter than his deeply-tanned skin.
“Tell me more about your Marilyn obsession,” he says, abruptly changing the subject.
I assume he doesn’t want to talk about Rocco anymore, because that topic is depressing. Honestly, I feel the same.
“I love old movies and TV shows,” I say. “I always have. I used to watch them at my Abuelita’s house—we didn’t have television at home. My stepmother is very strict. My Lita was not strict. She’d give us all the treats and snuggles and screen-time we wanted, every time we came to visit. She’d make leche frita, and we’d watch White Christmas, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Singin’ in the Rain, Some Like It Hot, West Side Story . . . all the Alfred Hitchcock films, those were her favorite. I think she watched them when she was young to learn English, and never stopped.”
“I used to watch Peaky Blinders with my Grandma Imogen,” Miles says. “She said it wasn’t accurate—the Peaky Blinders gang was never that organized. But she liked it all the same, just to hear the Irish accents and see the streets she knew.”
“It was opposite for Lita—she wanted to see the places she was never going to visit, like New York or Oklahoma.”
“She always stayed in Spain?” Miles asks.
“Yes. We’d go see her every week, Cat and me. Then my Abuelito died, and my father didn’t have to send us over there anymore. They were my mother’s parents. As long as Tito was alive, he could pressure my father into letting us visit. Once he was gone. . .there was nothing Lita could do.” I swallow hard. “She died last year. I didn’t see her the last four years she was alive.”
“I’m sorry,” Miles says. I can hear in his voice that he means it.
We’ve reached the Solar. The wind picks up, rustling the paper feathers of my angel wings.
“I shouldn’t have kept you out here so long,” Miles says, looking at my bare arms. “You must be cold.”
I should be cold, going from the heat of the crowded stables to the crisp, open air. But I’m not. I’m never cold around Miles—my heart is always beating too hard, blood thundering through my veins.
“Your cut is almost healed,” Miles says, gently touching the place next to my eye where Rocco dug his knife.
When Miles touches me, it ignites every nerve beneath his fingertips. That one part of my body becomes more sensitive than every other inch of skin combined.
I don’t think he means to kiss me.
But one hand on my face becomes two, and then he pulls me toward him, our lips coming together in one smooth movement. Miles’ lips are full and warm, firm and yet soft against mine. The kiss is gentle at first, and then it becomes deeper, his tongue sliding between my lips, caressing mine.
The taste of his mouth turns attraction into lust. My heart races so hard that it feels like one, continuous throb. I’ve thrown myself into his arms. We’re clinging to each other, kissing with a kind of desperation that feels wild and reckless and utterly addictive.