Page 52 of Threads That Bind Us

I turn the shower as cold as I can.

“Of course,” I reply. “Dress is on the bed.”

I try to focus onanythingexcept the sound of her pulling off her clothes, of her unzipping the garment bag Zane picked up. But it’s impossible. I shouldn’t think about her nearly naked in the room next to me. Shouldn’t wonder which parts of her skin have freckles and which don’t. She’s never in anything more revealing than bike shorts and t-shirts around me. I’m desperate to see more of her.

I spent the morning with Sammy, helping him unload crate after crate of booze into the inventory room, praying that the manual labor would keep me from thinking about Gwen.

It didn’t work.

I give it a few minutes after the noise of her changing seems to quiet and turn off the shower, drying off and wrapping a towel around my waist. Part of me hopes she’s gone into theliving room, so I can delay the inevitable. But when I open the door, water still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders, she’s standing with her back toward me.

There’s not a word for how incredible she looks. The dress, made of sapphire blue silk, drapes around her body in waves. The straps are thin and the zipper lays open to the small of her back. I feel indecent even looking at her, the lingering cold of the shower doing nothing to temper the heat crawling up my chest. The fabric ends just below her knee, but a generous slit exposes her thigh as she tosses a camel-colored coat on the bed. She’s slipped into beige heels, the straps meant to circle her ankles still undone.

It takes every ounce of control I have to school my expression as she turns over her shoulder. Her cheeks heat immediately as her eyes drop to my bare chest, and against my better judgment, I allow myself to read her flushed skin as attraction instead of embarrassment.

I’m so incredibly fucked.

“You look beautiful,” I say.

The word is too small, but it’s as close as I can get in English, maybe in human language. She’s been stunning since the moment I saw her, but there’s something about her dressed tofeelbeautiful—not for the practicality of doctor’s appointments or errands or torture—that has me nearly speechless.

“Thank you,” she replies quietly, clearing her throat and shifting her eyes back to mine. “Mind helping me with the zipper?”

I should put on clothes first, or take another cold shower. But I just nod, and she pulls her hair over her shoulder and offers me her back.

She has freckles along her spine. Tiny, almost translucent ones, not nearly as prominent as those on her shoulders andnose and temples, but still there. You’d never see them unless you were as close to her as I am now.

Goosebumps erupt across her skin where my fingers drag as I pull up the zipper. There’s no longer a string pulling us toward each other. There are magnets. Impossibly strong ones, demanding I touch her more, press myself against her.

I force myself to take two steps back.

She whispers a softthank youwithout turning around, and I move to the walk-in closet, taking the opportunity to put some distance between us and recenter myself.

I dress without paying attention to my movements, focusing on slowing my heart rate and calming my raging hard-on, trying to think about work or who will be at the fundraiser, or literally anything but the constellation of stars that decorate Gwen’s spine. But it’s no use.

It’s been impossible to focus on anything else since my call with Clara. I knew my sister thought my decision to bring Gwen into the family was impulsive. I never in a million years imagined she would threaten to vote against our marriage.

For a marriage of a council member to be legitimate in the eyes of The Syndicate, there has to be a vote. My parents and Clara, as well as my cousins, aunts, and uncle, will all have a say in whether Gwen is the right person to join our efforts. There hasn’t been a rejection in generations, and although the Matriarch or Patriarch technically holds veto power, I’ve never heard of it being used.

I tried to downplay my feelings on the phone, to prove to Clara that I was acting responsibly and following a well-laid plan, but the mindless panic I felt when my sister made her threat shifted something fundamentally.

There’s no use in denying how much I need Gwen. The pressure in my chest, the primal need for her, is terrifying. It’s getting harder and harder to refuse myself those momentswhere I read into her flush. Where I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, keeping her at an arm's length.

When I’m decent, dressed, and as put together as I fear I’ll be able to manage tonight, I return to the bedroom. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, leaning over to secure the strap around her ankle. Her copper hair falls over her shoulders in large, soft waves, obscuring most of her, but I still get a glimpse of the bodice of her dress pulled tightly against her breasts, forcing them to spill over the top.

Before I can recognize the terrible idea for what it is, I’m kneeling in front of her, brushing aside her hands and placing her foot on my knee. Her jaw drops just a fraction, pupils dilating and breath caught in her chest. I watch my own fingers intently as I fasten the clasp, trying to ignore what’s become obvious. It wasn’t embarrassment, or intrigue, or gratefulness, or even me projecting my attraction on to her. The look she’s given me constantly, since the afternoon at the farm, is desire.

I can feel the heavy beat of her pulse inside her ankle as I fasten the second shoe. I wonder what she would do if I pressed my lips there. If I dragged my mouth up the inside of her leg, under her knee, between her thighs. Would she open them for me, arch her back and hook her leg over my shoulder? Lace her fingers through my hair and pull, or push me closer? Would she do it because she wants to? Or because she thinks she has no choice?

I don’t know how long it is before Gwen clears her throat, but it’s too long for this to be interpreted as anything innocent, with my thumb rubbing circles on the inside of her calf. She crosses her leg but doesn’t unclench her fingers from where they’re curled into the comforter. I need to stand, to move, to not be on my knees in front of her, but if I do, all pretense will be thrown out the window. She’ll see how painfully hard I am, just from the thought of tasting her.

She whispers her thanks again, seemingly able to collect herself better than I am, shifting her legs to the side and slipping off the bed.

“Going to finish getting ready,” she mutters, and it’s not until the door to the bathroom clicks closed behind her I’m able to stand.

We both have a better grip on ourselves by the time we get into the car and head toward D.C. Zane’s playing bodyguard outside Ana’s friend's house, and while I could have pulled another driver, something about the feeling of the wheel beneath my hands is steadying.

The drive is tense in a way it’s never been between us. I ask about Ana’s field trip, and Gwen asks about Sammy, but both of us seem lost in our thoughts, trailing the ends of our sentences and humming non-committal responses. There are a few moments where I feel her almost break. She works herself up, pressing her fingernails into the skin of her hands, and opens her mouth to say something. But every time, she seems to talk herself out of it.