"We'll make sure that you're comfortable, Mare. We're hospitable—we promise."
"I have no doubt about that, Elara."
My words are breathless. I barely hear myself say them.
The town car feels suffocating. The black leather is hot against my hands, and the windows mock me with their displays of life and people. Everything glistens as it always does, and classical music plays softly over the speakers.
A subtle, pulsating throb makes its way behind my forehead. My skin feels hot beneath my coat that Lucas picked up for me at the coat check. My nerves buzz. I sandwich my hands between my thighs and the seat, hence the sweat.
I imagine that the plan to kidnap Mayor Jon has fallen through. Hearing Farley offhandedly mention the scheme feels like a lifetime ago. I didn't have anything to do with it, but the disruption I caused was surely enough to throw a wrench in that plan.
Although he has the car in park, Lucas grips the steering wheel hard. His face presses into the top of it, sure to leave a nice arch-shaped mark on his forehead.
Elara, meanwhile, is still a picture of elegance. Her makeup remains as intact as her cool expression, her steely coat making her look like a mob boss's wife. Her eyes are alert as she twists in her seat, peering back at me.
"You two can sleep in the same room if you want. It's fine with me."
Out of the corner of my eye, Maven's lips curve into a curious, eager smile. Any tiredness that he wore a moment ago vanishes from his face.
We don't sit right next to each other. The middle seat is empty, leaving between us two feet of breathing room. I figured that I'd put some space between me and my boyfriend for Elara and Lucas's sake.
But Lucas, forehead still against the wheel, doesn't seem to be responsive to much. And Elara, with a relaxed smile, is really taking this "cool parent" thing to heart.
My lips part, not sure of what to say.
The hairspray must be leaking into my brain. The complex braids pull at my skull.
"I'm really tired. I just want to get these shoes off and go to bed."
My feet ache. I free my hands from their cage between my thighs and the seat. My fingers, not entirely steady, pull at the straps that'll release my toes.
"We would just be sleeping."
Maven's tone is steady, casual, but his face still hints at morning plans. I should ask him if he has any homework to finish up, but that question feels like I'm evading another.
My boyfriend glances at his mom. His bow tie is loosened, and he looks about ready to rip off his tux jacket. His gelled hair is beginning to lose its shimmer. It's been a long day.
"Could we have the door closed?"
Elara lets out a little laugh. "Obviously, Maven. Unless you want your brother monitoring you and—"
The door at my right opens in a sleek movement, bringing with it a gust of air. Cal's tall body is cut off by the top of the door frame. One of his hands is braced against the car, the other on the door. A breath later, he leans down, bending his knees and bowing his neck so that his pretty eyes can see mine.
He wears his dark coat now. I inspect him head-to-toe, taking in his shiny black shoes, his watch, his bow tie. His face has regained its color, but hidden beneath his bored expression is a hint of rage.
That Scarlet Street Fighter was just through the door.
His eyes gain a bit of fire as they glance between me and Maven. Cal swallows.
"Could you scoot over, Mare?"
I find myself scooting over for the man that I ran from half an hour ago. My shoulder presses into Maven's as Cal ducks under the door frame. My shoes, no longer buckled, slip from my feet in the process of moving. Cal sits down beside me, his own shoulder pressing into my other.
"You're not staying with your father, Cal?" Elara asks. "Doesn't Dane want you to stay? You did, um, see what happened." Her eyebrow arches halfway up her forehead. Elara wears disdain as an expression.
Maven and I walked behind Lucas and Elara on our way out. We watched as Lucas murmured to her what happened in the hotel suite. I blink, pretending I have no inkling of what she means.
"I didn't see anything," Cal mutters. His voice is not of a gentleman, not of the man who spoke to me through the door before he realized who I was. "I just heard her heels go up the steps."
Cal pulls at his bow tie before undoing the top button of his shirt.
"I told him I wanted to stay, but Dad told me to go home."
There's more to the story. I can imagine arguing on both sides. Cal wanted to stay, hunt down that woman like a hound if it took him all night. Mister Calore probably wanted his son, his last memory of Coriane, out of there. God knows how many Scarlet Street Fighters are festering in the Plaza Hotel.
Maybe I would ask Cal what in the world he's talking about if I could handle looking him in the eyes.
"Hmm." Elara's disdain melts away. "Mare?"
I force my eyes to meet Elara's.
"Did you want to sleep in Maven's room? Otherwise, I'll call ahead and have somebody prepare a guest room."
Out of the corner of my right eye, I see how Cal slowly turns his head.
"I'm tired," I say again. "The guest room sounds fine."
The elevator pings, and golden doors slide apart to reveal the Calore penthouse.
The five of us have no trouble fitting in the spacious elevator, but the ride up is still painful. My stomach feels out of place again. It's always ahead or behind the rest of me. This time I left it in the downstairs lobby.
I stare down at the text from Shade on my phone.
Want me to pick you up? Sleepover at my place?
I bite my lip. Shade wants me safe at his apartment so that the police can't raid the Academy and arrest me should they put together the puzzle pieces. It's a little too late for that, though. It sounds like the Scarlet Street Fighters haven't heard who I've gone home with.
My jittery fingers type out a text.
I'm good. Staying at Calores' penthouse.
I hit the arrow to send the text. I mean to send another text explaining myself, but Shade's thumbs are too quick.
What?
I inwardly sigh at the three panicked question marks.
Don't worry about it. I'll call you in the morning.
I tuck my phone into my coat pocket. The elevator deposits us on the top floor of the penthouse, where the Calores' grand living room looms. The thirty-foot windows reveal the lights of northern Manhattan and the sprawling darkness of Central Park. The glass dining table that I once sat at for brunch is bare, save for two golden vases of red roses. The sitting area looks the same, a lamp here and there adding splotches of light to the setting.
I follow Elara out of the elevator, heels no longer clicking. I don't have it in me to care that I'm barefoot. Maven carries my shoes in one of his hands. The cool marble floor feels nice against my aching toes. Maven lingers close by my side. Cal trails us silently.
"Your room is two floors down, Mare, sweetie," Elara says, sounding like Mom. She gestures at the flight of glass stairs to my right. It descends into pitch-black. "It'll be down the left hall, to the right. Maven can show it to you. I'll lend you something to wear and check that somebody got you everything you need to wash up."
I nod. Maven gets a little closer, wrapping an arm around my waist.
Elara smiles at me. "You'll let me know if you need anything? I want you to feel like you're at home."
I don't feel like I'm at home. I was never treated this way at home. Mom never had enough time, energy, or money to dote on me like this.
Behind me, Cal shifts. He turns on his heel, silently heading for the stairs.
"Of course. Thanks, Elara."
"Goodnight," I tell my boyfriend for the millionth time.
With a stupid smile, Maven grins back at me. His cheeks are sandwiched between my hands, and his blue eyes glitter. His ease calms me down, helps me forget that my hands still shake ever-so-slightly.
"Goodnight. But you're sure?"
"Yes."
I blink at Maven. He smiles because I'm safe, because I got out of the hotel room in time. He smiles to let me know that everything's okay, that I'm in the clear. He also smiles because he wants me to sleep in his bed with him.
Still in his tux, Maven sits on the side of his bed. His windows reveal Midtown's sparkling lights that rise up around the penthouse, though rarely as high. His desk is neatly piled with textbooks, and the board on his wall still bears the selfie we took outside one day.
My heels are discarded at the foot of the bed. I stand between Maven's legs, resisting him as his hands gently tug at my hips, asking me to get closer.
My palm lightly smacks his cheek. "We still have class tomorrow, you know."
His smile turns into a grin. He likes my smack.
I raise a warning eyebrow.
"Goodnight, Maven."
My sharp, crisp words are enough to get him to slacken his grip on my hips. He knows that he's fighting a losing battle. I need my own bed in a quiet room tonight. I can barely stand being in my own body, let alone sharing a bed with somebody else.
"Well, then. Goodnight, Mare."
I deposit a quick, proper kiss on his lips, pulling away from his hands before he can want more. Maven's bedroom door opens without a creak, and I close it behind me with a click.
My feet pad down cold marble floors, sending chills up my calves. Lucas took away my coat, leaving me in my dress. I feel more naked with the sweeping neckline and slit up my leg than I did before. The long, empty, dark hall isn't the same as when I first came for brunch. The space feels lonely without sunlight to fill it. The sprawling rooms and corridors are far too big for a family of four.
It doesn't take me long to pass another room. The door is closed, but a shaft of light slips out at the bottom. It's accompanied by the faint mumble of a vinyl record.
I pause at the door.
Cal was quiet in the car. Only his shoulder and cologne reminded me of his presence. They paralyzed me, in a way. I couldn't talk to Maven, couldn't speak as long as I was breathing the same air as Cal.
He was so close, separated from me by a damn piece of wood. If I had dare said a word in the car, he would've known. He would've heard the guilt dripping from my tongue. So, the car ride from Fifty-Ninth to Fifty-Seventh Street was entirely silent.
Ma'am?
He's angry with himself. He caught a Scarlet Street Fighter in the act and didn't even know it until Lucas showed up. He didn't break the door in time, didn't catch her in time. And God knows where she is now.
A door still separates us. Granted, Cal isn't banging on it this time. He's probably lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, imagining what the woman through the door looked like.
I wonder what he's wearing.
I doubt he wears a shirt to sleep. Cal radiates heat. He doesn't need one. His biceps and abs look better without a shirt anyway.
The thought has me backing up a step as I catch myself picturing my contemporary teacher half-naked in bed.
You looked like you wanted to take a bite out of him, Mare.
Evangeline's taunting words ring in my ears.
I back away from the door. She's wrong. I don't want anything from Cal. She's just trying to get into my head. Get me distracted from ballet.
I swallow, blinking at Cal's bedroom door.
I force myself to turn on my heel.
The hallway ends in a blur. I pass through one of the sitting rooms. Another long stretch of hall bears opulent artwork. There aren't family photos.
I find the staircase down soon enough. Elara told me that my room would be down these stairs, down the left hall, and to the right. My feet connect with glass colder than the marble. I hurry down them, hand clinging tightly to the rail. I've already fallen on the stairs once tonight.
The hall below is dark. I told Maven that I could find my way down alone. Light fails to reach the long hallway, and I stumble a bit before my hands connect to a wall. I imagine that the Calores have another living room down here. Maybe an art gallery or movie theatre, too. Or a library or personal gym, the latter for Cal.
But the last door at the right wears a bit of light. I turn into it, closing the door behind me.
The light comes from a sapphire-blue lamp positioned upon a bedside table. The bed itself is massive, large enough to fit three of me with room to spare. The dove-grey sheets look plush and heavy, the pillows abundant. The walls bear black and white photography of some town by the sea. A desk sits off in one corner, a sitting area off in another. Two doors lead away from the bedroom, one to a closet, the other to a bathroom.
The swirling marble floor continues into the bedroom, still chilling my feet.
The ceiling stretches high, the floors far. The design is minimalist. The room is too big just for sleeping, just for one person.
The wall opposite my bed is a glassy panorama. Central Park spills out in front of me, the Upper East Side, East Harlem, the Upper West Side, and Morningside Heights like a photo frame around the dark green. The rivers that envelop Manhattan are dark. Lights shimmer far below.
I pause at the foot of my bed, where I find a silky piece of fabric the color of sangria wine.
Elara doesn't strike me as a sweatpants and cotton t-shirt kind of lady. I shouldn't be surprised.
The slip is tiny and lacey. It'll cover my ass if I'm lucky.
I shiver, realizing that it isn't just the marble that's cold. The air in the room is chilling, like somebody forgot to shut off the AC.
My stomach twists, rumbles. For the first time all evening, I realize that the pain in my stomach isn't from nerves. I never ate at the Plaza, never had time to. I felt too sick for most of the evening to have room in my stomach for anything other than fear.
I never had dinner.
My heart dully pounds against the mattress, and my blood pulses in my ears.
The silence is heavy. Unbearable. It's never this quiet at night. The lavish bed sheets let drafts in, and their silky texture does little to trap body heat. They just weigh me down, drown me.
It's been over an hour since I got into bed. At first, I thought I'd be fine, that sleep would come before I got too cold or hungry. Now, cool sweat gathers at the nape of my neck. Now, it's too late. My chance to go upstairs and ask Maven for a sweatshirt and something to eat has passed. I feel oddly embarrassed now, not wanting to have to tell Maven that I've spent the past hour in the guestroom cold and hungry. I would have to change back into my dress, too. He can't see me in his mom's lingerie.
Elara's slip swoops low against my chest and hugs my curves. The lace trim itches at my thighs. My breasts don't fit right in the bra cups. The spaghetti straps slip off my shoulders with every toss and turn. The slip makes me feel small and even more naked in the king-sized bed.
Everything hurts. My skin, my stomach, my mind.
With a discontented growl, I flip over in the sheets. My body sinks into the lavish mattress, my head hitting the down pillow with a smack. My legs tangle with the layers of sheets, fighting them off.
Shivers rack up and down my body. The air conditioning is silent but lethal, coming from somewhere in the walls. This room hasn't been used since the dead of summer.
Hunger claws at my insides. On occasion, my stomach growls over my heart and pulsing blood. Lying on my stomach for the last half hour hasn't done anything to help—if anything, it just lets me feel the pounding of my heart against the sheets.
The pain lets my mind drift to other things. Another man.
He's a distraction from my stomach, my skin, my head.
The bedroom door crippled under the force of his body. Another five seconds wasted, and I would've been dead meat.
But he was so sweet before that. He called me ma'am, told me who he was, and offered to walk me out of the Plaza so that I could get away from Volo.
His dad forced him to go home, and he probably can't sleep now. He shouldn't beat himself up over letting a Scarlet Street Fighter get away. Cal's always so sweet.
He wanted to see if I was okay in the ballroom this evening. He walked me up to my apartment door after we went running. He held open the door for me at the Met.
He puts up with me during our lessons. He's easy to talk to. He wants me to talk to him, to feel like he's a safe place for me.
I smile against my pillow, thinking about the dimples that indent his cheeks when he smiles. He has to smile the right way, though. It can't be one of those get-revenge-on-Mare-with-push-ups smile.
He looked so handsome in his tux.
He always looks handsome. Like a prince. I think of the cords on his forearms, the size of his biceps. His broad shoulders are nice to hold onto when I dance with him. He is tall and strong. The ideal mate. I like when his hands are on my hips. He has such a nice smile, and his hair would probably be nice to run my fingers through.
"Cal."
His name crosses my lips in a soft, longing sigh.
I lurch into a sitting position. My sheets rip back with the force of my body.
I press a hand over my traitorous lips. Central Park stares back at me accusingly. The air in the guest bedroom suspends around me, watching.
He makes me ache between my legs.
Evangeline's doing this to me. She's putting immoral thoughts into my head.
Big dick, assumably. Take a look at his hands sometime.
I'm in the middle of my cycle. That must be why this is happening to me. My body has identified Cal as an ideal mate, and now it's interested in having . . . you know. With him.
Evangeline did this to me.
It doesn't help that I'm alone in a colossal bed in my boyfriend's mom's slip. The hunger in my stomach is translating into other feelings.
My headache resurges with enthusiasm.
1:35. With a glance at the clock on the bedside stand, I growl.
I don't like Cal. I can't like Cal.
Damn the lingerie.
I've since given up falling asleep. It's not happening until I eat and find actual clothes.
My feet tread silently up the glass stairs. I pass the landing that would take me to my boyfriend's room, instead hauling myself around the hand railing and continuing up. The hallways and stairwells are as pitch-black as they were before.
I wander through them like a lonely ghost with crossed arms and shivering legs. The air is warmer outside of the guest bedroom, but not warm enough. My hunger pains aren't exactly keeping me warm either.
The Calore penthouse is entrenched in darkness. This far up, the lights of the city don't reach the windows. It's all shadows. I only know that I'm still in the penthouse because of the hollow quality of air.
I reach the top of the last stairs, inwardly sighing. When I got up from bed, my vision got a little spotty. Low blood sugar does that to you.
At least Mister Calore isn't up here with a squadron of police.
I'd prefer to have a sweatshirt on when I get arrested.
My feet pad across the onyx marble floor. I look back at the golden elevator—I could take it, get out of here in my lingerie. But I don't have any cash on me, and walking down the streets in my slip seems like an unwise idea.
Elara's colorless artwork looms upon another wall. I have to squint to focus my vision enough to see the square outlines. The dining table at the far end of the great room glints with some reflection. The white keys of the grand piano glimmer if I stare long enough.
There wouldn't be a kitchen up here, but my hazed mind hardly knows that. There isn't a single hallway leading from the Calores' living room. It's all glass and marble and shadows.
Fine.
Plan B. I'll have to wake Maven up.
I cross the great room. I pass the outlines of Elara's paintings, cringing with every impact of my feet against the stone-cold floor.
Maybe I should sleep in Maven's room. There'll already be body heat under the covers, and then my boyfriend will already be there if I need anything more.
I couldn't think about Cal if I was in Maven's bed, and—
A light flickers on from the sitting area. It's the color of honey and sunsets, but it doesn't extend much past the plush chairs and couches. It barely finds me, faintly illuminating my lingerie-clad body.
You have got to be kidding me.
"Mare."
The living room waits in silence. Generously-sized chiffon sectional couches mirror one another before the window panels. White marble consoles hold glass knick-knacks and unused scarlet candles. Twin coffee tables wait before either couch, two royal blue wingback chairs rest upon pristine carpet the color of smoke, and glass end tables bear silver lamps.
Cal's hand rests on the lamp switch.
Covered by a Mets blanket, his legs face Central Park, but the upper half of his body is twisted so that he can reach back for the lamp. He wears a black t-shirt. His hair glistens as though he just showered and it isn't quite done drying. His pretty, accusing eyes burn holes into my lingerie, and his sharp jawline shifts as he swallows.
I resist the urge to cover my chest with my arms or the hair that falls down my back. In my little outfit, Cal can see the edges of my breasts, the subtle swell of my hips and ass. I tell myself that I'm used to having my body on display. I'm a ballerina. But even leotard necklines don't sweep so low or bear lace bra straps. The deep red fabric stands out against the black and white of the penthouse.
Cal can't possibly see the goosebumps on my skin from here.
He's just lurking in the dark. He's probably brooding over the Scarlet Street Fighter on the living room couch. In the dark.
"It's not—not what it looks like."
I glance at the stairs on the other side of the room. They'd take me right down to Maven's room, bypassing Cal's door.
"Oh? What does it look like then?"
Cal's features crinkle in displeasure. He braces a forearm on the couch arm, shifts his leg so that his foot is braced against the couch cushion. His throat bobs as his eyes assess me, flitting from my feet, to my hips, to my eyes. Butterflies crowd my stomach. I like when he looks at me.
I scowl at the thought. I don't like Cal.
Cal raises an eyebrow. Beneath his displeasure, he looks tired. His hair is all over the place, and there's a drawn quality to his features.
"Go back to your room, Mare."
His words are firm, unyielding.
But what would Cal do if I were to ignore him, continue my walk across the living room, and go down the stairs?
Seeing the question in my eyes, Cal tilts his head. His own eyes look dangerous. He makes me feel naked. I can't decide if I like that feeling or not.
"I don't—I'm not sleeping in Maven's room," I mutter, feeling my head go a little light. I blink at the black spots swelling in my vision. "I, um, I don't—"
I swallow, trailing off. My mind floats away like a helium balloon as chills crawl across my skin.
"Mare?"
Cal shifts his blanket. I vaguely note how he wears just a pair of grey boxers that hug his muscled thighs with a bulge in between. No pants or socks. God, he has nice legs.
I suppose that I don't have to feel so embarrassed of my lingerie as he rises to his full height. "You're not wearing pants," I say dumbly, averting my gaze to the floor. It moves a little. That kind of thing must happen to floors when so high up in the air.
"Neither are you," Cal says. When he gets too close, I find that it isn't appropriate to look down. I fix my eyes on his shoulders. His nice, broad shoulders. "Are you okay?"
His hand feels warm, almost hot when he places it on my forearm. It goes to my forehead next, finding cold sweat on my skin. Finally, two of his fingers find a point on my wrist. My pulse. When he lets go of my hand, it drops limp at my side.
"Mare."
Cal's voice becomes nervous. I blink up at him, his face taking a moment to focus.
"I can't, can't sleep," I mutter. Central Park glitters faraway like a land out of a fairy tale. I think of running with Cal through the pathways, snapping at him, arguing with him. I bet if I treated him nicely, he would treat me nicely too. We wouldn't argue. We'd just talk.
The silly thought snaps me back into focus. My eyes narrow, and I glare up at Cal.
He sees my lucidity return.
"Why not?"
Some stubborn part of me keeps my lips sealed. I don't want Cal's help. He's helped me plenty, and I don't need more reason to owe him. I need to get these ridiculous thoughts—courtesy of Evangeline Samos—out of my head.
Spending another second with him won't help me. I need to go to my boyfriend's room, forget about his brother. Without another word, I turn on my heel.
Push-ups are the worst that will come from—
Two big, strong hands find purchase on my hips, grabbing at the silk. Cal hauls me around, and there isn't much I can do as I'm faced with him again. His hands hold me in place. I feel the power radiating down from his arms into the hold that he has on my body.
With both of his hands tied up, I take the liberty of slapping Cal in the face.
It's about as hard as the slap that Mom once gave Maven, and I regret it the moment that my hand makes contact with Cal's cleanly-shaven cheek. His head doesn't move, but I feel the sting of the slap against my own flesh, through my bones.
Cal's eyes darken. His grip tightens. "What was that for?" he growls.
He does not want me in his brother's bedroom.
"For manhandling me," I spit. My fire matches his own. "Let me go."
I like the possessive grip he has on my hips, the guttural growl that rolls off his tongue. I like how I only have lingerie on for him. And he looks really, really good in his boxers. All the more reason for me to get the hell away from Cal.
"No. You looked like you were going to pass out just now. And I'd prefer you didn't fall down the stairs."
It wouldn't be the first time today, Cal.
I glare up at him in defiance, craning my neck. I should hit him again for being so damn tall. Cal raises a brow, daring me to slap him again. His lip twitches, and his bronze eyes burn. He's not mad, though. Not quite.
The black spots come back with vengeance, and I start leaning forward a little.
Oh. He has his hands on my hips so that I don't fall over.
"I'm hungry," I mutter. My hand finds Cal's biceps to steady myself. My blood sugar is tanking. "I ate lunch with Elara and Anabel, but dinner never happened. I was too anxious at the Plaza, so I never felt hungry. Elara never asked me if I wanted to eat when we came back here. By the time that my nerves went away and I remembered I had a stomach, it was past midnight. Everyone was asleep."
Some of my words are rushed together, others are spaced out. I sound confused.
"Your stupid stepmother just gave me a fucking slip to wear to bed. The room's cold. Really cold. Has it been used since summer? I need pants. And a sweatshirt. I'm really tired. I've been up forever. I just want to go to bed."
By the end of my monologue, I feel like crying. Cal's shoulder would be a nice place to cry into.
Taking an involuntary, dizzy step forward, I let my other hand touch his other shoulder. I gaze up at him. I should get closer, lean onto his chest. His body's warm.
Cal looks mad now. His eyebrows knit together, and his throat works. He looks livid, even as his hands lessen their vice-like grip on my hips. An animalistic glint in his eyes says that he has been wronged. He also looks like a kicked animal. His shoulders slouch, his mouth frowning in displeasure.
"Why would you do that to yourself?"
My contemporary teacher lets me go. He walks back to the couch, turns his head over his shoulder to make sure I haven't fallen over in the few seconds he's been away. He grabs his Mets blanket.
"I was in my lingerie. I felt stupid, really stupid for forgetting to eat, and I didn't want to wake up Maven in my slip. He'd like that too much. I just thought that I could fall asleep and eat in the morning."
Cal comes behind me. The blanket falls over my shoulders. I yank its corners, enveloping my entire body in the soft, thick fabric.
I stare down at the floor in embarrassment, feeling the blood rush to my face.
"What do you want to eat?"
My eyelids feel heavy.
How am I supposed to know what there is to eat?
"Whatever."
Cal circles back around me. A displeased sound comes out of his throat.
"I'm not doing the cooking, Mare. As talented as I am, I can't cook to save my life. I burn everything. My culinary skills are limited to blending kale smoothies and chocolate malts. But we have a great kitchen staff on-call twenty-four-seven. They'll make you anything in the world that you want. Now tell me what you want."
I blink at Cal. The longer that I stare at him, the more displeased he looks.
Through the fog of my head, I can't remember what sorts of food I like.
"I don't know what I want," I tell Cal.
Cal shifts on his feet.
"Do you want me to pick?"
My eyes go back to the floor.
"Yes, please."