Before I can respond—like I have anything to say—there’s a buzz.
“Vale. You have a visitor.”
I jerk my head up. “What?”
“And he’shot,” Sophia says.
Miri scoffs. “God, you’re such a ho.”
“You’re a ho, ho.”
“Yeah, well, you sound like fuckin’ Santa Claus.”
“Heiscute,” rhapsodizes Amanda.
My heart jumps to my throat, clogging my breathing as my skin rushes with pinpricks.
Kingston.
It can’t be. Here? How would he…
He’d find something out. Somehow. Surely he could.
Slowly, almost automatically, I get to my feet, walk the few steps across to where the glass windowed wall separates the dayroom and reception room, the knot of girls parting for me to pass.
I see him.
Tall. Black wool coat, leather gloves. Flushed cheeks.
Handsome.
Familiar.
Not Kingston.
“Hello, Gwenna.” Alexei Moroslav bows in greeting, ducking his head of dark curls. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
THREE
GWENNA
The reception roomhas lemon-chiffon yellow walls, arched white ceilings, and a curlicued, cream-colored mantel above a fireplace that’s never lit.
Relaxing.
Or it should be, anyway. I canfeelthe stares of the other girls radiating through the glass panels of the door that separates us from the dayroom.
“This is…” Moroslav—Alexei? I don’t even know what to call him—takes it all in, his expression studiously blank. “Nice,” he finishes.
“You don’t have to lie,” I say, surprising myself with my bluntness even as my heart is hammering in my ribs. My hands are clutching the edges of my chair, and I’m looking everywhere and nowhere at once until, at last, I steal a glance at the man sitting across from me.
Tall, broad-shouldered but slender. Almost wiry. Dark waves of hair, ivory skin, angular face. Dressed, under his greatcoat, in a deep red button-down. And again, the cross necklace at his throat.
Suddenly, I remember whatIlook like. Bare-faced, hair barely brushed, wearing institutional clothes.
What am I doing here?
I shouldn’t care what I look like. I shouldn’t have even come out to see him, probably.What was I thinking? What’s wrong with me?
