Page 69 of Left-Hand Larceny

Sometimes, I want to stop pretending so badly I could scream.

Or hit something.

Or hit him.

Or—

Or go to the gala with Ragnar.

If I showed up on his arm—if I let him be real, even for a night—I wouldn’t have to pretend. Not in the same way. I wouldn’t have to smile and dodge and swallow my rage.

But he’s not mine. And I’m not his.

I’ve spent the last ten years mastering the art of being digestible. So I’ll keep my head down.

Later that night, I’m brushing my teeth and muttering practice lines in the mirror.

“Hi, Christian. Hope you’ve been doing okay.”

“So nice of you to come.”

“It’s nice to see you again.”

“I hear work is going well.”

They all taste like ash.

I try alternatives.

“Please don’t speak to me.”

“I’d prefer we keep our distance.”

“I’m not comfortable around you.”

“Go to fucking hell and burn.”

They all sound like red flags to people who don’t understand. To people who will ask questions I’m not ready to answer.

I picture Christian’s smile. The one that makes other people say “charming” and me say “dangerous.”

I picture Ragnar beside me.

His quiet steadiness. His wide, warm hands. The way he looked at me earlier when I teased him about his tie—like I wasn’t just funny, but good.

He makes me feel like I fit. Like I don’t have to try so hard. Even when I’m a mess of poor decisions and buried panic, he sees something worth standing close to. I grip the edge of the sink. Watching my toothpaste sluice down the drain.

It shouldn’t matter what Christian thinks. Or what my parents want. But I’ve spent so long trying to be the version of me they recognize. The me they helped build. I don’t know how to stop.

The next morning, Ragnar’s already in the weight room when I arrive. Alone. Focused.

He’s mid-rep, muscles flexing under his shirt, sweat clinging to the curve of his neck. He doesn’t see me. And for one second, I just watch him. Let myself want things I can’t have.

Then I clear my throat.

“You’re not supposed to be lifting heavy until next week.”

“I’m b-below my max.” He looks up, eyes crinkling, and my stomach cramps.

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