Page 50

“I can hear you, princess.” Her voice is so deep. Right in my ear. “Are you watching yourself?”
I wish the mirror was facing me. I wish my hands were hers, one on my clit and one on my throat and our eyes meeting in the reflection as I come apart cradled against her. A whine puffs out of me.
Tamayo spits a whisper that sounds like a curse. Something brushes against the door—fabric? Knuckles? The tension inside me is too tight, champagne braced to pop before it’s uncorked. My whole body contracts, a mewl pushed out of me. The release is right there. A just-right flick of my wrist, and I’ll burst.
Tamayo’s voice sounds closer, the timbre of it vibrating into my chest despite the barrier between us. “You sound so pliant, princess.”
I finally erupt. My core clenches over and over, and my thighs clamp together as if trying to crush the cause of this painful pleasure, and a long, deep, unstoppable moan tumbles out of my chest. I can’t stop my fingers on my clit; they circleharder and harder, pushing myself from floating effervescence into a freefall orgasm that takes hold of my throat and silences me as effectively as Tamayo’s grip around my neck.
My hand falls away, finally, and I rest against the door, breath slowing one inhale at a time.
“Next time, princess”—Tamayo’s voice is deep and commanding, the one she uses when she expects to be obeyed—“you’ll come on my fingers or not at all.”
And then her footsteps carry her away from my door and down the hall.
I scoff. “We’ll fucking see about that.”
ZARINA
The next morning, a shopping bag sits on the floor outside my room. I glance around the hallway, like the person who set it here is waiting around the corner. The place is empty, the house quiet. It could have been anyone who set it here—a soldier, Darius, even Pat—but all I can recall is Tamayo standing on the other side of this door last night, her hands brushing the wood. She likely left it behind. Maybe it was the whole reason she came to my door at all.
The bag is white with a familiar, silver logo in the shape of an apple on the front. I peek inside and find a new laptop, the box apparently unopened. Doubtful. I bring it into my room, upturning the bag onto my bed. There’s a phone and a pair of the latest over-ear headphones. Everything is sealed, the hardware still sporting their protective films. Either Tamayo and her people are really good at hiding their tracks, or she’s stupid. The latter is unlikely.
All it takes is opening the activity monitor application and a simple keyword search to find it—malware. It’s pretty basic, and it likely requires a password I don’t have to delete it. Easier tosimply create encrypted pathways instead. I set to work, fingers tapping over the keyboard, and wonder if it was her or the techs on staff who underestimated me and which presentation gave me the upper hand—spoiled princess, high femme, or simply having a vagina. Either way, their loss is my gain. I start the tedious process, wishing I’d grabbed coffee before settling in to code what I need to keep my family’s secrets out of Tamayo’s hands.
The exact opposite of what I promised the Birdwatcher.
I pull my necklace up to my lips, the ruby resting between my teeth and the chain tightening around my neck like a noose. That’s three promises now. None of which I know how to keep. Tamayo wants territory and a favor. The Birdwatcher wants secrets. And I only want time. To understand what the fuck has my family running scared toward the precipice of extinction. If this deal they’ve struck with the Accardis ever comes to fruition, there’s no other inevitable conclusion. The Gallos will be swallowed up whole and disintegrated into acidic nothing.
But I don’t have secrets to give the Birdwatcher. Or territory to give Tamayo. Or power to fulfill a favor.
I spit out the ruby pendant and grab my hair in fistfuls. “Fuck.”
The Birdwatcher didn’t even give me anything but a place to start.I don’t trade without a deposit, but I’ll offer a show of good faith,they said.Look at properties in the Gachico neighborhood.It’s not much—it’s almost nothing—but it’s better than sifting through decades of records to find the rotting mold in a Scrooge McDuck–sized pile of gold. At least I have a direction, even if the direction is “generally south.”
The door squeaks open, and Pat trudges in, sweat soaking their clothes. They collapse on the floor with their limbs akimbo. I don’t spare them a glance as I continue typing. They groan. I ignore them. Their hand falls with a dramatic thump. I roll my eyes.
“I’m dying,” they complain.
I hum. They got their own room on Monday, but they always end up here, whether to sleep or to shower or to bug me. I’d find it adorable if it wasn’t always at the most inopportune moments.
“Darius is trying to kill me,” they grumble.
“And yet you’re alive enough to annoy me,” I mutter.
They grab the duvet and pull themself up the bed to sitting, hand stretching to my toes. I pull my foot under my knee, in case they get any ideas about tickling. Their hair is still annoyingly smooth and flawless despite having spent likely hours in the gym with Darius.
“I see you got your phone, too,” they say.
“It’s like you have the gift of sight,” I deadpan.
“What’s got your panties in a twist today?” Their voice is clipped with impatience, their sweat rubbing off on my sheets. I wrinkle my nose, and Pat huffs. “Jesus, what is it? Mad you had to fuck yourself instead of letting Tamayo do it like you want?”
I gasp and grab a pillow, smacking Pat in the head with it hard enough to mess up their always perfect hair. Smug victory fills my chest before they jump to their feet and rip the pillow out of my hand.
“Admit it,” they demand.
“No,” I say as sternly as possible. “Don’t hit my face or the tech.”