Page 78 of The Art of Exiley

“No. Let me tell Prince Alexander. It’s a bad time to create tension with the Guard. This is not something the prince will take lightly, I assure you.”

Michael comes crashing through the door. His face is flushed, and his eyes are overly bright.

“Oh, thank the Conductor,” he exclaims when he sees me, but his eyebrows draw together when he notices my appearance. “Are you okay?” he asks, making his way to my side. “Is she okay?”

I’m okay now, I want to say. I smile up at him. He’s so handsome when he’s panicked. His hair is so sloppy.

“Where have you been?” Kaylie whispers urgently. “I’ve been trying to track you down for an age.”

“What happened to her?” There’s a ringing in my ears, and his voice sounds far away. “There’s talk of a captured Sire and a potential provincial breach. I came looking for her as soon as I heard. She’s not trained—”

“She’s fine,” Kaylie says soothingly. “Some boys spiked her drink. I’ve examined her, and she’s okay, but she needs to rest. We need to get her back to the institute.” Kaylie’s voice is soft, and her hand strokes Michael’s arm.

I watch how he’s calmed by her words and her touch. He squeezes her hand affectionately.

This doesn’t bother me.

I don’t care.

Please, stop touching him.

“I’ll take her to the Atlas now,” Michael says. “There’s a train leaving soon.”

But Rafe interrupts him. “I’ll take her,” he says. “If there’s a provincial threat, I’m sure you’re needed here.”

Michael nods hesitantly, a note of distrust in his gaze.

Wait, he’s going to letRafetake me back? No. I want Michael to do it.

“Be careful with her,” Michael says to Rafe.

A short nod is Rafe’s response. He gently pulls me up from the chair. My legs are noodles, and my knees buckle. Before I stumble, Rafe reaches down, smoothly catches me behind my knees, and swoops me up into his arms as if I were as light as my pet cat, Elliot. I miss Elliot. She’s fuzzy. She’s been dead since I was twelve.

Rafe holds me like a child. My legs dangle over his arms, and my head lolls against his solid chest. I try to protest, but his body heat is warming away my chills, and I feel less dizzy this way. Also, he smells good.

As he walks down the hall, he mutters, “You have no sense of self-preservation. You should not be so trusting.” When I don’t respond, he asks me dispassionately, “Are you okay?”

“Your eyes are pretty” is my woozy response. The comforting rumble of his chuckle lulls me to sleep.

23

I wake sometime later, my head pounding.

Wait. This isn’t my bed.

I don’t have this many pillows or a luxurious fur throw. Wow, it’s soft. I bury my face in the cozy warmth and inhale the somehow familiar spicy scent.

Where am I anyway? I sit up. Instead of piles of clothing on the floor, there’s a large piano. Further confirmation that this is not, in fact, my room.

I didn’t hook up with anyone last night, did I?

I’m still wearing my dress.

My dress. Carnevale.

Right. I was drugged. And something else had happened to me that had made Rafe and Kaylie worried. My skin crawls with unease as I take stock of myself. I can’t find any evidence of the red mark that Rafe had seen on my arm, and nothing hurts.

Along with the general foreboding, I’m also frustrated that I slept through the Atlas journey home, missing a second chance at cell service.

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