Page 78 of The Winter Princess
The pitch-black presses against my eyelids, and I find myself beginning to worry about knocking into him or losing my sense of orientation and overbalancing against his chest. That’s a mistake. Don’t think of his chest. I take a yoga breath. I am a statue. I am marble. I am aflamenpaleolithic carving. I could do this all day.
“The sleep…” he says. “Is it because of the kiss?”
I actually yelp, and he reaches out to steady me, hands wrapping securely around my arms. He probably has goblin night vision.
“Is it?”
What am I supposed to say? “I have other things that keep me awake. The visitor count, the state dinner with Vorburg next year, Pixy algorithms, back pain, anthropogenic climate change…”
He gives my arm the tiniest shake.
“Is it?”
I stuff as much offended incredulity into my “No” as possible.
He’s silent and then, “You’re a bad liar.” He says it like he’s adding to a list of problems that have been exposed in the light. Dark varnish layer, lifted colors, 7mm tear, bad liar. How dare he know me as well as Ella.
“There’s a lot going on right now,” he says, “with the museum and my test. Let’s focus on that.”
How tidily he’s sorted us out. My face is on fire. “Is the picture done now?”
He releases a breath, and I feel him reach past me as he gropes around for the switch, feel the press of his chest and inhale the scent of his cologne. My lips are almost on his neck. Click. I blink against the light, unable to meet his eyes.
“How soon can I record the image?” I ask, stepping clear of him and backing toward the door. As my phone turns on, it pings with missed messages. A few texts from Ella.
Why is #OskarsTopButton trending? Also, #WhatHappenedInTheDarkFreja?
My eyes fly to Oskar’s shirt and I tap my own clavicle. “Your button,” I squeak.Vede.“When you reached for the light, you brushed me. The camera was right there.” It’s just horror after horror today.
He looks down, no more than mildly interested that the contours of his collarbones are exposed to the entire world, given out for free like lollipops at the bank. He pinches the fabric and button, fiddling with the placement and inadvertently showing more of his throat as well as, surprisingly, a thin gold chain following the sinuous line of muscle. My eyes trace the line until it disappears.
His hands stop, and he draws a circle on his skin, looping the chain with his forefinger, displaying a small gold medallion on his palm. “It’s a Pavian saint.”
I flinch, training my eyes on the over-heated Rococo. No. I focus on the black curtain behind it.
“You seemed interested.” He’s laughing at me. “Santo Laurenzi. Saint of greatest need.” He tips the medal into place and does up his button, taking the camera from its stand and striding into the studio.
I slump against the wall and check my phone again. Ella has followed her text with screenshots of various chirps.
@King_of_Fromage: Four minutes and counting. Get the Summer Palace on the line. Lone Wolffe on the loose! #WhatHappenedInTheDarkFreja
@hairy_dragonslayer: #OskarVelasquezsTopButton be like, “Judge, I was an innocent bystander in this conflagration of sexiness…”
@RoyalWeddingRiot: Will someone please get married!?!? #KingOskar #OskarsTopButton
@trashpandaprincess: Five minutes!! #WhatHappenedInTheDarkFreja *GIF of popcorn-eating pop star*
“Are you coming?” Oskar calls. “The picture is ready.”
I straighten, press cold fingers to my warm cheeks, and clear my throat. Only when I am absolutely certain my voice won’t betray me do I answer. “Coming.”
27
Winter Wedding
OSKAR
It’s murder working with Freja—the accidental brush of her shoulder in the close confines of a car, the false sense of ease we have to convey in front of the camera, or the way her eyes shift away as soon as I look at her. The attraction between us is like a boulder crushing me into bedrock. With every move of my body, with every desperate attempt to wiggle free, it squeezes me more.
