Page 45 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
Cat’s eyes were glistening green pools, searching for another argument, not willing to let go, but then Harper rushed in, distracting them both.
“I’ve got it!” she proclaimed. She tried to shove the book through the portal, but it was too large to go through the small opening, no matter which way she turned it. Harper’s brows pulled down as she contemplated the solution. She knew what she needed to do even though Bristol was certain it went against every book principle inside her. This would be far worse than creasing the corner of a page—it was practically book murder. Harper flipped back the covers, twisting and yanking at them like she was shucking a stubborn piece of corn, until they finally ripped free from the spine.
Doubt stabbed Bristol. Was she asking too much? Her sisters needed her. But Bristol needed something too, and it wasn’t just her father’s return. Something dark prowled inside her. There was a toll to be paid. Someone needed to pay for their years of moving on, for all the friendships she never got to make, for all the middle-of-the-night departures, for all the beds she could never call her own, for all the mercies her parents never received, for all the reasons that made them run.
Even if her sisters seemed reluctant, their silent acquiescence made Bristol believe they wanted those same things too. Bristol would collect the toll for them all.
Harper tossed aside the covers and rolled the remaining pages into a neat circle and passed them through the portal to Bristol.
“My apologies to Anastasia Wiggins,” Bristol said.
An unsteady laugh jumped from Harper’s throat. “I think she’d understand.”
Be careful, little sister.
Be careful, big sister.
They didn’t say the words aloud, but Bristol read it in their eyes as she said goodbye.
“Find him,” Cat whispered, her throat thick with tears.
Bristol nodded. “I have to go. Another month. Max. I promise.”
She cursed herself for saying it, knowing now how big this fairy world was. As she pulled her arm back to her side, her sisters disappeared from view, and the wall returned to stone. She remained crouched on the floor under the table, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes until the stinging ebbed.
And then she heard something. The slamming of a door.
CHAPTER 32
Halfway down the curving staircase, Bristol stopped and pressed her back to the stone wall. There was noise coming from below.Running water.Her stomach somersaulted.
Someone had returned to the room.
Bathing?Yes, she decided,they must be in the bath chamber.Now was her only chance to sneak past them. She took off her shoes, not trusting the leather soles against the marble, and tiptoed down the remaining steps.
She was on the last step when the rush of water stopped. It was now or never. She was partway across the room, sneaking across the luxurious white fur rug at the foot of the bed, when a voice called out.
“Looking for something?”
She whirled.
It was Tyghan. A very wet Tyghan. He didn’t seem to notice or care that his towel hung perilously low around his hips. Messy black strands of hair dripped over his brow onto his muscled and glistening chest. Hot needles stabbed her stomach. A trail of wet footsteps puddled on the dark floor behind him.Look away, Bristol, she told herself, but instead she stared, frozen, her thoughts reeling. Every inch of him was—
She swallowed. His shoulders, his chest, the tight ripples above his navel . . . He was like a statue chiseled from a single perfect piece of Carrara marble. Almost perfect. She thought about all the museum basements she had explored, looking at half-finished sculptures the masters had set aside because of some perceived flaw in the stone. Every inch of him was exquisite, except for one glaring flaw—a long, jagged scar on his left side. It looked like someone had tried to carve out his liver with a dull knife.
She forced her eyes away from Tyghan’s abdomen and low-slung towel and met his gaze. Her temples blazed with heat, and she prayed he couldn’t see it. “I’m sorry. I took a wrong turn. I didn’t know this was your room.”
He didn’t answer, his cool eyes boring into her.
Her face grew hotter. “Really, I’m very sorry I interrupted your . . . bath. I—”
“It’s not a problem. I suppose it could be easy to get lost in these halls. Though this room doesn’t look anything like yours.”
His tone was mocking. It was, indeed, a problem. A huge one.
“I realize that,” she replied. “I just thought there might be another route through here and then I saw the stairs, and I—”Stop, Bristol. Her explanation was going from bad to pathetic. She was usually quite good at spinning half-truths, but not when speaking to a half-naked man in his own room she had just broken into. This was new territory for her, and her game was definitely lacking polish.
He eyed the shoes in her hand.
