Page 339 of Hell Hath No Fury
Reaching between us, she directed me to her opening with gentle fingers, and I couldn’t control it.
I didn’t even breathe first.
I sank inside the best fucking thing I’d ever felt.
Pain pinched at the corners of Rose’s eyes. I lowered over her to kiss each one, and she laughed, a silent, breathless sound that curled my lips. Our foreheads met again, as did our eyes, and she murmured, “Do you know I fucking love you, Cooper?”
I did know. “I do,” I rasped and broke her. Her eyes widened; her lips parted. I kissed her, whispering, “And I also know I loved you first, Pest.” I licked her smile, felt her relax a little underneath me, and slid my forearms higher, caging her head between them.
I wanted to keep her like that forever, at my mercy and grateful for every touch. I wanted her even while I had her, my soul forever hungering for hers.
I knew even then, nestled tightly inside her body, the last barrier between us erased, that there was no way of escaping this love now. A love like ours didn’t fade. Its roots tunneled deeper and demanded nourishment.
Remembering that eased the stifling fear inside me, but not enough to know what to do with it.
Rose had stopped trying to call, but two days later, she cornered me in the hall at school.
Hands wrapped protectively around her bag at her stomach, she whispered, “You can ignore me all you like, but you can’t ignore what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”
When I’d just gaped at her, unsure what to say, she reminded me of the new world waiting outside my inner turmoil. “The Thanksgiving dinner is this Sunday night at The Ribbon.”
Nightingale. Right.
The very thing that’d twisted everything into this fucked-up knot I couldn’t seem to untie.
I’d nodded, about to reach for her because even without knowing how to fix this, I needed to touch her, but she’d stalked off down the hall to her next class.
Now, riding the elevator to Nightingale’s headquarters at The Ribbon, taking in the panoramic view of Peridot Island before it fell into nothing but black sea, I tried to call her one last time.
As predicted, she didn’t answer. I couldn’t exactly blame her after I’d ignored her for days, but it was still frustrating. The most frustrating thing wasn’t even the fact we weren’t talking. It was knowing that when we did, I’d have to lie or risk being honest and ruin everything.
The elevator dinged, the doors opening to the top floor.
Walking out onto the brown slate floor, the walls bedecked with what seemed to be numerous lines of code, I slowed my feet. It wasn’t code but the names of all initiates. Most were black, many were gold, and I would have asked my father aboutthe difference, but he and my mother were already inside the banquet suite at the end of the hall. I’d told them to go on ahead while I’d waited down in the lobby and tried to call Rose.
Blowing out a breath, I pulled my suit jacket closed and buttoned it while I continued toward the whine of violins and small bursts of laughter.
Since everyone had to pass through the security personnel downstairs and use the member-locked keypad inside the elevator, no one waited by the door. Nerves ignited, tightening every muscle as I wondered what I was about to encounter and if Rose was okay.
Stepping inside, I discovered most of the faction was already seated at row after row of long tables. White and red roses perched in crystal decanters between various dishes being placed upon the white tablecloths by waiters and waitresses.
I wasn’t sure if they were hotel staff, but I was willing to bet they were bound to lifelong nondisclosure agreements for merely being able to set foot in a room with the organization. Ever since Rose and I had started learning about the society that sometimes stole our parents from us, we’d grown curious about what the gatherings and various events might look and be like.
So far, it was just a bunch of trussed-up elitists all sitting and floating around fancy-looking tables and delicious-scented food.
The woman I was searching for was already seated deep into the room, an older gentleman smiling at her as he cut into his turkey. My father and mother were near the opened doors I’d entered, and I nodded, smiling their way before walking the length of the long room to take my place beside Rose.
In a fitted, short black dress with gathered fabric that puffed above her shoulders, she ran her fingers through her shining dark hair. A smile was briefly offered with red painted lips and accompanied by smoky, uncertain eyes. “You made it.”
“Tried to call you,” I muttered beneath my breath as I tucked my chair in. “Weren’t we supposed to be doing this together?”
Rose shoved a forkful of parsley dressed chicken into her mouth and chewed before giving me those dark eyes. “Funny,” she said, low and swallowing. “I thought the same thing.”
Fair, I supposed, but my jaw still tightened when she turned back to the graying gent to talk about what sounded like his sick wife. “She adores Thanksgiving,” he was saying. “I’m going to have to smuggle some turkey out of here for her.”
Rose laughed. I helped myself to some turkey and salad, then snatched a dinner roll, chewing vigorously on it as the remaining seats quickly filled, leaving some latecomers to drift. They picked from the finger foods left upon the tall tables blanketed in white on the sides of the room and perched themselves on low-lying red velvet bench seats and stools.
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. This seemingly ordinary yet ridiculously high-class meal with what had to be well over a hundred people. I knew Rose was thinking the same, her smile not reaching her eyes whenever she flicked them around the room, looking as though she were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
