Page 141 of The Obedient Lie
I turned toward the box on the bench. My fingers found the crimson wax seal, pressed with my family’s crest. I peeled it open slowly.
The scent hit instantly.
Me.
It was my signature perfume—created for me when I turned sixteen by a perfumer in France. Light floralundertones wrapped in musk and clean warmth. Feminine without being too soft. Elegant without trying.
Everything with my name on it—my clothes, sheets, even stationery—was misted with it. The scent had become part of me. Of how I was known.
Every week, the routine stayed the same. I’d send out my worn laundry in a monogrammed velvet bag, and in its place, fresh pieces would arrive—folded in tissue, sealed with wax, lightly perfumed like a kiss against the neck. A dynasty daughter didn’t do laundry. We wore legacy. We wore luxury.
I reached into the box and pulled out what I hadn’t dared wear in weeks.
Deep red satin with faint blush-pink lace. The slip dress was soft and fluid, shaped to my waist and hips, the front low enough to make my breath catch. It had no back—just thin straps that tied at the base of my neck, the silk dipping all the way down to the curve of my spine.
I stepped into it slowly. Checked my reflection before opening the door and walking out.
Bastion let out a low, guttural, “Fuck.”
I looked up.
He was already watching me—jaw tight, eyes darker than the rest of the room. Like he was two seconds from saying screw the rules and pulling me under him.
“That’s our girl,” Luca muttered beside him.
But it wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said it. Like he meantours. Like his whole body ached with it.
And maybe it was wrong, but God, I loved that.
“Comfortable?” Luca asked, voice dipped low and unreadable.
I nodded, walking toward them. When I reached the edge of the bed, it was Bastion who moved first.
He reached out and took my hand, tugging me gently,guiding me up and in—right between them like I belonged there.
Because I did.
The sheets were warm from their bodies. The space between them perfect for mine. Like they’d measured it.
I settled onto the mattress, exhaling softly.
Then I turned my head and whispered, “Can I have your hands?”
They both stilled.
“I sleep better when you’re touching me,” I added, lifting my chin, trying to play it cool while my heart pounded.
Neither of them said anything.
They just grinned—wickedly, knowingly—like I’d handed them some secret key to something I didn’t even fully understand yet.
But they didn’t hesitate.
Two hands—one from each side—found me under the sheets.
Fingers brushing my waist.
My hip.
