Page 20 of A Sin So Pure

“You’re such a tease,” I growl, grabbing a pillow from behind me and throwing it at her. “You can’t do that.”

She dodges, her snickers growing into cackles as she scurries towards the bathroom. But before she disappears past the archway, she turns, a smirk dimpling her cheeks.

“Yes, I can,” she says. “You said five minutes.”

Then sucks her fingers into her mouth, licking them clean.

I can’t help but bite into my bottom lip at the sight.

Nora’s fingers exit her mouth with apop. She winks and, without another word, disappears into the bathroom.

Moments later, the shower spurts on, steam quickly billowing from the cracked door.

I pull one of the pillows left on the bed over my head, letting loose a groan.

Maybe I should’ve stayed asleep.

But would waking up alone, again, have been any better than this?

I throw the pillow to the other side of the bed.

No. Waking up alone would have been worse.

At least now she has to look me in the eye as she leaves before breakfast.

Kicking the covers away, I get out of bed. I don’t bother changing into full day clothes yet—the clock arms stand at ameasly six and ten. I wrap myself in a velvet robe instead. Pulling the knot tight across my waist, I pad around the room, picking up our clothes from the night before and draping them on to the bed.

If I hid her pants, would she have to stay?

A half smile tugs at my lips at the thought.

No, she’d probably ring Josie to bring her a spare and then be on her merry way.

When I lift Nora’s coat and hang it over my arm, something heavy within its pocket hits my hip. Reaching into the folds of the wool trench coat, my fingers curl around a glass bottle.

Is she carrying flasks with her cigarettes too? Jeeze.

I drop her coat on the bed with the rest of her clothes and shuffle over to the window for better light. I examine the bottle, squinting to read the handwritten label. Popping the cork, I take a whiff and nearly gag.

Definitely not any liquor I know.

Once I have the cork secured in place, I flip the bottle. My brows shoot to my hairline as sunlight reflects on the small, raised icon stamped into the glass.

A pair of wings, but not feathered. A four-pronged butterfly.

Seelie.

Shit.

The water cuts off in the bathroom, and the curtain rings squeak across the shower rod. I jolt at the metallic scrape, dropping the bottle onto the ground. It rolls across the floor and under the bed.

Double shit.

There’s no time to dive under the bed for it.

Instinct has me scurrying to my vanity. I sit and busy myself with straightening the messy pile of makeup that I left last night before spritzing myself with some perfume.

Rosy floral notes tickle my nose and calm my jolted nerves.

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