Chapter 12
I hadn't meant to go that way. The service hallway behind the ballroom was supposed to be empty, just a shortcut the catering manager had pointed to when she slipped me a glass of water and whispered, "You don't have to smile the whole time, honey."
The air was cooler there, concrete and stainless steel after the heavy perfume of the ballroom. My white dress caught on the edge of a rolling cart and I stopped to fix it, my left shoulder throbbing under the bandage. I could still hear the string quartet through the wall, muffled, and the low murmur of donors with their foundation paddles.
Then the service door at the far end opened and he was there.
He wasn't supposed to be inside the tower at all. He wore the same brown suede coat over his striped shirt, but he'd taken off any name tag, and his dark hair was damp at the temples like he'd been walking fast in the cold. He saw me and stopped dead. For a second neither of us moved.
I felt my breath catch. His eyes dropped to my shoulder, to the white edge of the bandage peeking above the lace, then back to my face. He lifted his hand without thinking, palm up, like he was afraid I'd break.
"You're not supposed to be here," I whispered.
"I know," he said. His voice was low and rough. "I couldn't leave."
We were too close in that narrow hall. A server pushed past us with a tray of champagne flutes, and the current of air made me sway. My hand brushed his as I steadied myself against the cart — just a brush, knuckles against knuckles.
Heat shot up my wrist.
Not the dull ache I'd felt for days, but a live wire, branching. I gasped and looked down. The golden mark that had lived faint under my skin flared, thin lines of light unfurling like frost across my wrist, pulsing.
His wrist did the same. At the exact same second.
He stared at it, his mouth open. "It did that in the car," he said. "I thought I was losing my mind. I rubbed it raw."
I hadn't let anyone touch it since the night my shoulder was torn. I pulled my hand back an inch, then realized the light was dimming the moment we broke contact. The ache came back, deeper.
He noticed too. His fingers twitched.
"Don't," I said, but I didn't mean it.
He stepped closer. This time it wasn't an accident. He turned his hand over and I placed mine in his, deliberately, palm to palm. My hand was shaking so bad I thought he'd feel it. His was warm, calloused at the fingertips, and he closed his around mine like he was afraid I'd be pulled away.
The light exploded.
It wasn't subtle anymore. The golden branching ran from my wrist up over his, then back to mine, connecting us in a complete loop that threw actual light onto the white cinderblock walls. It was bright enough to see the faint veins in our hands, bright enough that I could see his eyes reflect gold. A soft, high shimmer hung in the air, like heat off summer pavement, and the mark pulsed with my heartbeat — and his, which had synced to mine.
We both made a sound at the same time, not quite words. Relief, shock. The pain in my shoulder eased for the first time in a week, replaced by warmth that spread down my arm.
"What is this?" he whispered. He wasn't pulling away. He was holding tighter.
"I don't know," I said. My voice cracked. "I thought I was imagining it. After he—" I couldn't finish.
Two catering staff had stopped at the end of the hall. A woman in a black vest with a headset, and a younger guy holding a stack of plates. They were staring at our hands. The woman's mouth fell open and she let out a sharp gasp that echoed off the concrete.
"Oh my God," the guy said. "Do you see that?"
I tried to let go, instinct taking over — don't be seen, don't make a scene, my father's voice in my head for twenty years. But the man across from me shook his head, just barely, and laced his fingers through mine.
"Don't," he said. "Please. If you let go it hurts again."
I knew what he meant. The moment we touched, the constant low pull I'd felt since the bedroom, since the dusk and the blood, finally made sense. It wasn't fear. It was this. Him.
From the ballroom side, the headset crackled. The woman fumbled for it, eyes still locked on our wrists. "Sir — Sir, you need to come to the service hall, now. Something — there's a light—"
That was all it took. Through the closed ballroom doors I heard a chair scrape, hard, and a low voice cut through the quartet. I knew that grip, that force, even without seeing it.
He was coming. The man in the dark suit with the pocket chain who had dragged me across the marble foyer under the chandelier was alerted, and he was rushing toward us.
May you like
The young man in front of me heard it too. His jaw tightened, but he didn't drop my hand. He stepped in front of me by six inches, just enough to put his shoulder between me and the sound of those footsteps, and his thumb pressed once, steady, over the glowing branch on my wrist.
We chose to hold on. The light between us burned brighter, and this time we let everyone see it.
