Page 55 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

“Meow?”

I grit my teeth together, exhale slow and steady. “It’s all good, cat,” I say softly, scratching Violet behind her ears.

“Meow,” she replies, settling her head back down on her paws, her eyes sliding closed.

I stare at the movie—this one filled with magic and villains and love and adventure—then down at the book River is clutching to her chest, even in sleep, and smile.

One minute she was talking passionately about why morally gray heroes are obviously the best (and are obviously in love with the assassin trying to take them down), and the next her eyes were drifting to the TV, quoting the next line before the character could.

Too see this version of River up close…well, it’s pretty fucking great.

Not shy and reserved.

Not combative and distant.

But soft and warm and sweet and funny and?—

Mine.

Alarm bells blare, but before I can really get myself worked up, she shifts and I catch the book before it can drop to the floor.

Then I find myself reading the blurb on the back, opening the cover and tracing my fingers over the pen and ink map printed inside.

And then, somehow, I find myself turning to the first page.

Reading the first chapter.

Then the next.

And the next as River slumps down, resting her head on my thighs, curling her knees up to her chest.

Violet makes a quiet protest then curls up beside her.

My heart thuds hard against my ribcage, and my throat goes tight, emotions boiling up.

This is a dangerous thing.

Because I’ve wanted a moment exactly like this for longer than I can remember.

Because I’d do anything to keep it.

Because I know—fucking know—no matter how hard I fight, I’ll lose her anyway.

Maybe that certainty is why I stay where I am, why I keep still even as my feet go asleep, why I continue to read long into the night, well after the movie finishes playing and my inbox continues to overflow.

My phone vibrates against the side table, startling me out of the story River likes so much.

(And now I understand exactly why that’s the case).

Carefully, I snag it, see a message from Pascal.

I glance at the time—1:12 a.m.

Well, that can be nothing good.

River shifts slightly, her brows pulling together faintly even in sleep. I slide one hand gently up and down her back, murmur. “It’s okay, little hen.”

Her expression smooths. My obsession grows.