Page 43 of Fading Sun

After I kill Astrophel.

His token, I realize after thinking his name.

It was in my stuff.

The stuff that a stranger just moved for me.

“I need to get this thing off me,” I say after we step out of the elevator, motioning to the huge wedding dress I’m wearing. “Where’s the bedroom?”

“That way.” He points down one of the halls, and I hurry down it as quickly as my ridiculous stilettos can carry me.

Closing the door behind me, I find the walk-in closet and flick on the light.

The closet is so big that it might as well be a room unto itself. There are rows of Damien’s suits, and a few of my own outfits now hanging beside them. There are also a bunch of delicate, expensive dresses that definitely aren’t my own, but that all conveniently seem to be around my size.

None of my jeans are hanging.

But there are a few columns of drawers. So, I search them, starting from the bottom up. My heart hammers as I dig through.

Please still be here, I think, stopping when I find the drawer with my jeans.

Just like in my original room, my least favorite pair of jeans are at the bottom of the drawer. I pull them out, reach into the pocket, and…

The token is right where I left it.

Before realizing what I’m doing, I hold it to my heart. Because it’s safe.

My secret is safe.

Taking a few breaths to calm myself, I tuck it back into its hiding space and shove the jeans back into the drawer.

Just as I’m finishing, someone knocks on the door.

Damien. It has to be.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I stand up, panicked.

“Yes?” I say, not opening the door.

“Do you need help with the dress?” he asks, surprisingly gentle, and almost hesitant.

Reluctance washes over me, followed by a jolt of anxiety.

Was he lying when he said he didn’t expect us to share a bed tonight? Does he have certain… expectations of what’s supposed to happen now that we’re married?

We never discussed it. I just assumed we were on the same page—especially after that hollow kiss.

“Amber?” he asks, and I want to tell him I don’t need help.

But I can’t manage the maze of buttons and laces on my own. And I certainly don’t intend on sleeping in this thing. Even if I do sleep in it, I’ll need to take it off tomorrow morning, before we leave for the Himalayas.

“Sure,” I reply, somehow composing myself as I open the door.

He steps in, leaving it open, and looks me over. There’s a professionalism in his eyes that makes this feel far less intimate than it should.

I don’t know if I’m grateful or sad about it.

“Turn around,” he instructs.

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