The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

Deal With Rebecca

LoveBookwormGirl da kiss ;)

The door Mrs. Laughlin had sent me through didn't lead directly to a bathroom.

It led to a bedroom that held two twin beds and little else. The walls were painted a light purple; the twin comforters were quilted from squares of fabric in lavender and violet.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar.
I walked toward it, so painfully aware of my surroundings that I felt like I could have heard a pin drop a mile away. There's no one here. I'm safe. It's okay. I'm okay.

Inside the bathroom, I checked behind the shower curtain. There's no one here, I told myself again. I'm okay. I managed to get my cell phone out of my pocket and called Max. I needed her to answer. I needed not to be alone with this. What I got was voicemail.

I called seven times, and she didn't pick up.
Maybe she couldn't. Or maybe she doesn't want to. That hit me almost as hard as looking in the mirror and seeing my blood-streaked, dirt-smeared face. I stared at myself.

I could hear the echo of gunfire.
Stop. I needed to wash—my hands, my face, the streaks of blood on my chest. Turn on the water, I told myself sternly. Pick up the washcloth. I willed my body to move.

I couldn't.

Hands reached past me to turn on the faucet. I should have jumped. I should have panicked. But somehow, my body relaxed into the person behind me.

"It's okay, Heiress," Jameson murmured. "I've got you."

I hadn't heard Jameson come in. I wasn't entirely sure how long I'd been standing there, frozen.
Jameson reached for a pale purple washcloth and held it under the water. "I'm fine," I insisted, as much to myself as to him.

Jameson lifted the washcloth to my face. "You're a horrible liar." He ran the cloth over my cheek, working his way down toward the scratch. A breath caught in my throat. He rinsed the washcloth, blood and dirt coloring the sink, as he lifted the cloth back to my skin.

Again.

And again.

He washed my face, took my hands in his and held them under the water, his fingers working the dirt from mine. My skin responded to his touch. For the first time, no part of me said to pull away. He was so gentle. He wasn't acting like this was just a game to him—like I was just a game.

He picked the washcloth back up and ran it down my neck to my shoulder, over my collarbone and across. The water was warm. I leaned into his touch. This is a bad idea. I knew that. I'd always known that, but I let myself concentrate on the feel of Jameson Hawthorne's touch, the stroke of the cloth.

"I'm okay," I said, and I could almost believe that.
"You're better than okay."

I closed my eyes. He'd been there with me in the forest. I could feel his body over mine. Protecting me. I needed this. I needed something.

I opened my eyes, looked at him. Focused on him. I thought about going two hundred miles an hour, about the climbing wall, about the moment I'd first seen him up on that balcony. Was being a sensation seeker so bad? Was wanting to feel something other than awful really so wrong?

Everyone is a little wrong sometimes, Heiress.
Something gave inside of me, and I pushed him gently back against the bathroom wall. I need this. His deep green eyes met mine. He needs it, too.

"Yes?" I asked him hoarsely.

"Yes, Heiress."

My lips closed over his. He kissed me back, gentle at first, then not gently at all. Maybe it was the aftereffects of shock, but as I drove my hands into his hair, as he grabbed my ponytail and angled my face upward, I could see a thousand versions of him in my mind: Balanced on the balcony's railing. Shirtless and sunlit in the solarium. Smiling. Smirking. Our hands touching on the bridge. His body protecting mine in the Black Wood. Trailing a washcloth down my neck—

Kissing him felt like fire. He wasn't soft and sweet, the way he had been while washing away the blood and dirt. I didn't need soft or sweet. This was exactly what I needed.

Maybe I could be what he needed, too. Maybe this didn't have to be a bad idea. Maybe the complications were worth it.

Trinity pov

God, I hate couples.

"You're just mad you're chronically single."
Rebecca Laughlin speaks up from the bed across from me.

Ugh.

I'm not rattled, and I keep my cool. "We all know you and Thea are a thing. You can stop pushing others down about that now."

Pain flicks across her face. "What are you doing here?"

"That is none of your concern. What are you doing here?"

"I'm visiting my alive grandparents."

Low, even for her.

"When am I getting that information?"

"I-I'm working on it. Things are hard at home."
As much as I despise Bex, I'm not without sympathy. I also don't work for free.

"Get it to me soon."

Rebecca takes a deep breath. "I lost my sister."

"I lost a sister too!" Or so I thought. My voice is starting to rise.

"Emily wasn't your sister. She was your friend. It's not the same."

"She was as good as! Do you see this?" I hold up the picture perched on the ledge next to her bed. Me, Emily and Rebecca smile, waving American flags on the Fourth of July. "Those are sisters!"

"I'm not even there!" Rebecca's face flushes. "I'm invisible." Her voice gets very small.

"Emily hurt me too. She hurt my brothers. She wasn't anymore of a sister to me as she was to you." That truth that I denied myself for so long spilled out of me.

"I'll get you what you want to know." Rebecca looks at me with eyes exactly like Emily's, but nothing like them at all.

A.N.: If you're seeing this on Saturday, I'm now in the states for winter vacation and it's still Friday here. A Very Hawthorne Christmas incoming ;)
Ily all sm and have an amazing week
<3!
Sky(lar)