Page 68 of If You Claim Me

Dred

It’s an idea.

But probably not a good one.

Lexi

Seeing more than just his pretty face these days?

Dred

The way he loves his Meems is hard to ignore.

So many things about him are now—like the furrow in his brow every time he looks at me, as though he’s trying to figureout what to say.

Or how the past four nights, after I’ve fallen asleep on the couch in the library, like I do every night, he’s come in and carried me to bed. And every night his kiss migrates, moving closer to my mouth.

He’s fine when Meems has dinner with us, but on those evenings when she’s too tired—which is becoming increasingly, alarmingly frequent—and it’s just the two of us, he struggles not to say something that could be hurtful, if interpreted incorrectly. Most of the time I can decode the message under the words, but today I’m stressed.

My wedding is in two weeks—when Connor said it would be a short engagement, I thought maybe a few months, not a handful of weeks. But he’s worried about Meems’s health, and frankly, so am I.

The wedding I can handle, but the bridal shower being thrown by his mother at his sister Isabelle’s house today terrifies the shit out of me.

Meems and all my friends will be there as a buffer, but I won’t have Connor as my bodyguard.

Dred

I have to put my dress on, and it’ll take another ten minutes to get from my bedroom to the front door, so I’m signing off until you get here.

Lexi

You’ve got this. And we’ve got you.

I toss my phone on the bed and head for the closet. Another dress appeared yesterday. This one is exceedingly modest, but also beautiful. I could probably have bought a brand-new car twice over with the amount of money spent on dresses for me recently. Or fund a soup kitchen for a year. Which is gross to think about. But it also gives me pause when I consider the library gala and how different it could look this year, and howeasy it would be to fund all the programs if I changed the scope of my thinking.

I shove those thoughts aside. They’re not helpful. When I get my first check I’ll donate to ease my guilty conscience.

I change into the dress and transfer the necessary items from my purse to my matching clutch. I grab a handful of bracelets from my dresser and thread them onto my left wrist to cover the raw skin and faint bruising left behind from the hair tie. I’ve switched to a scrunchie recently, which helps, but the skin isn’t quite healed yet. I hate that I’ve resorted to this old behavior, and that it’s mostly subconscious.

I make sure I have everything before I leave my room, carrying my high heels since it’s half a kilometer from my room to the front door. I was only slightly exaggerating about how long it takes to get from one end of the house to the other.

Connor is sitting in the living room with Meems when I arrive. I smile at her outfit. Meems loves statement pieces just as much as Connor seems to, and together she and I make quite the pair. Our dresses are mirrors of each other. Hers is teal with wine piping and mine is wine with teal piping. This is intentional. And not just because it’s cute, I’ve come to realize. It screams solidarity, and it’s a giant fuck you to Connor’s parents and their apparent love of sad beige dresses.

Connor stands, eyes moving over me in a way that’s become familiar and flattering. He approaches, lighting up with the same anticipation I feel. He only touches me when Meems or someone else equally important is there to witness it—and when he carries me to bed every night.

“You look stunning.” He runs his fingers gently down my arm, clasping my hand in his.

Is it just for Meems’s benefit, or does he feel the same electric tension swirling between us? Either way, my stomach flutters as he brings my fingers to his lips. His lips quirk as he pulls me closer.

Normally I would enjoy this part—being close to him,breathing in the sandalwood and citrus of his cologne, reveling in the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, marveling at the way everything about him softens when he holds me like this. Okay, I still enjoy this, but… “Easy to smile when you’re not the one walking into the lion’s den,” I whisper.

That wipes the grin off his face. Guilt is swift on its heels.

“You’ve already sent the message that we three are a team, Connor. No need to keep firing arrows by dressing us like twins.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s real apology in his tone.

“Mmm... Best to find a way to make it up to me that doesn’t have dollar bills attached to it.” Despite myself and the tension flaring between us, or maybe because of it, I tilt my chin up.