Page 88 of Gabriel

She sat at the opposite end of the couch, bundled up in her own knitted blanket, legs folded beneath her.

The bluish light of the screen danced across her face—cheekbones sharp, eyes steady, lips curled into the faintest amused smirk—as another unfortunate on-screen character got eviscerated by something with too many teeth and no soul.

“Your taste in movies is… interesting,” I said, keeping my tone casual, like I wasn’t shackled to a pipe and under the watch of someone who once threatened to shoot me for sneezing too loud.

She didn’t so much as glance over.

“Don’t tell me you’d rather sit here and do a puzzle,” she sneered.

“Fuck puzzles, woman.”

She sighed. “Good. I hate them. But I guess… if you’d prefer a different movie, like a romantic comedy orFifty Shadeskind of vibe, I could rummage around and see if I can find something to soothe your delicate sensibilities.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. Nothing says ‘delicate’ like being kidnapped, but in romance at least nobody is getting butchered alive.”

She snorted. “You’d be surprised. Ask Anya what she reads.”

That stopped me.

“Huh?”

She let out a quiet laugh, still watching the screen as blood sprayed across it in high-definition.

“Anya started all of us on smut back in the dorms. Regular old romance novels at first, then it turned into erotica. Now she’sdeep into alien smut. Like, seven-tentacled-lovers-who-heal-with-sex level stuff.”

I blinked. “Anya’s too young to be reading that.”

Amara shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be sure to tell her you said so. I’m sure she’ll stop immediately.”

I reached across the bowl with my free hand and grabbed a handful of popcorn, flicking a piece into my mouth. Lightly buttered, barely salted. Exactly the way Anya liked it. My chest tightened.

Not my sweet, innocent Anya.

My baby sister was out there reading scandalous space romance while I was chained up on a yacht watching horror movies like it was a sleepover.Jésus.

Amara caught me glancing at her and raised an eyebrow. “You look like a kid who just learned Santa Claus doesn’t exist.”

I theatrically touched my chest with my free hand. “What? He doesn’t?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Okay, Santos, what’s up? Are you upset that Anya reads erotica?” she said, voice laced with humor.

“I’m upset I didn’t know,” I grumbled pensively. How could it be that I didn’t know? All I saw on her nightstands were photography books and classics by Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Gustave Flaubert.

“You look like you’re plotting something,” Amara said.

“Just wondering how many calories are in popcorn,” I deadpanned.

“Liar.” She smirked, tossing a piece at my chest. “You’re mad about the cuff and Anya’s taste in books.”

“I’m not mad,” I huffed. “Just reevaluating some things.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “You’re such a man.”

“Thanks for noticing,” I said dryly.

“Don’t evaluate things too much and just enjoy the movie. Be grateful I’m actually being merciful.”