Page 67 of We Are the Match
Altea’s voice is first, and then a man’s voice, his a lower rumble. I don’t hear Helen, not yet, but she will not be far behind.
I yank the lever, and the stairs rise slowly, slowly.
They click shut, conceal me away, just as the office door below opens.
I crouch at the floor, at a small gap in the floorboards, and peer down.
They enter together—Altea arm in arm with Zarek, who must have finished whatever godawful interrogation he was doing with Marcus. Tommy follows with Helen on his arm and takes his place at the door as they all sit down.
And then I am trapped, all the gods below, and death waiting for me if I am found.
Could Helen save me from this?Wouldshe?
My chest aches strangely at the thought.
“Hana is on her way,” Zarek announces below me without preamble.
He does not need to dally on greetings and pleasantries.
As if on cue, Hana enters the small office, flanked by her attendants.
A shiver snakes down my spine. All these brutal women missing their home and hating the man who took it from them.
And me, shit from Troy, hiding in the wings, waiting to topple them all.
“Thank you all for coming,” Altea says, inclining her head to Zarek. “Frona sends her apologies. My attendants will have refreshments for all of you on the terrace afterward. I can send Saanva for drinks now if anyone would like?”
“It is our pleasure,” Zarek says. There is a smile on his face but nothing in his eyes. Nothing at all.
I will take your whole fucking hand.
I clench my injured hand so tightly that pain unfurls inside me, a grunt escaping before I can stop it.
Altea stiffens, but otherwise she does not react. “Will Milos be joining us tonight?” she asks smoothly.
Of course she pretends not to know: no one is supposed to know, but of course everyone does.
Helen, however, shifts in her seat slightly.
Zarek places his hand on her back, fingers splayed open possessively.
Helen is not mine, despite the little game we are playing for the benefit of the Families. Still, the sight of anyone touching Helen as if he owns her makes the knot in my chest expand so wide I can hardly breathe.
Perhaps I would have waited them out otherwise. Perhaps I would have made the rational, safer choice. But the sight of his hand on Helen’s back, the way she shrinks into her own body while still leaning into his touch—
That pushes me into action.
I have the small bag of solidox from the bomb-maker’s warehouse.
There is sugar beside the teapot on Altea’s desk.
My lighter is in my pocket.
So I crawl to the edge of the room, wait until the conversation below grows in volume, and then pry the vent off with a pop.
I shake the solidox and sugar together in the bag, and then crawl back over and peer between the slats of the floor.
I can see it all, the push-pull of power between them, the way they all seem to rotate on an axis around Zarek, as if they are planets in orbit and he is the goddamn sun.
