“I was looking at a full silicone suit—lizard skin, fishnets with tasteful cuts, nipple tassels and a dragon on my shoulder instead of a plasma cannon. The mask was gonna be part Predator, part Jason Vorhees. Because ladies love their masked lovers, right, you two?”
“Wait, why a Dragon?” Mac asks.
Trey grins like a gremlin.
“Oh, Macadamia nut, you innocent little thing. Dragon is the name of a dildo.”
Mac’s mouth drops open. “Oh. Sexual Predator.”
Their banter blurs into background noise as my eyes find her—Mac, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
She looks away first.
Because I know what she sees in my eyes.
Pain. Regret. A love too big to hold.
The others start peeling off one by one, tossing jokes over their shoulders, their footsteps creaking up the stairs.
And then it’s just her and me.
Mac.
The woman I’d give my last breath for.
I walk to her, quiet and steady. She doesn’t move when I stop in front of her, doesn’t flinch when I reach down and slide one arm behind her knees, the other around her back. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t fight it.
“Logan—”
“I’m taking you upstairs,” I murmur, lifting her into my arms. “Time to get lost in Wonderland.”
She lets out a soft laugh, one that makes something inside me ache with relief. “You’re really doing the Mad Hatter thing?”
“Full chaotic energy,” I grin. “You?”
She gives me a ghost of a smile. “Guess I’m your Alice.”
“No guessing about it.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, and I carry her up the stairs, slow and deliberate, like she’s the most precious thing in the world.
The room is quiet when we get there, golden light from the bedside lamp softening every shadow. I set her down gently on the edge of the bed and kneel in front of the box at the foot of it—pulling out our costumes. Mine’s a deep velvet coat with mismatched buttons, a crooked hat, and striped trousers that scream unhinged ringmaster. Hers is a pale blue satin dress with a full skirt, delicate puff sleeves, and a tiny white apron trimmed with lace.
“You’re gonna look dangerous in this,” I say, holding it up.
She raises a brow. “Alice is dangerous?”
“You are.”
Her cheeks flush as I hand her the dress and turn away slightly to give her space. Still, I catch the soft rustle of fabric behind me, the zipper sliding up. She curses under her breath, and I glance back.
“Need help?” I ask, voice low.
She hesitates for a second, then nods.
I step in behind her, fingers brushing her bare spine as I tug the zipper up slowly, reverently. Her skin is warm beneath my touch. My mouth is inches from her neck, and I can’t help it—I press the lightest kiss to the curve of her shoulder.
She shivers.
