Page 136 of Stormbreaker

Could she truly be so indifferent to everything I’m going through?

Does she care that I’m no longer safe in these walls?

Then I wonder if she’s even getting these at all. It would be just like my father to confiscate her device. He’s done it to control her before. I’m not sure if knowing that makes me more or less depressed.

There’s another message from Silver and Hazel’s group chat. Far more direct this time.

silver: everyone knows you kissed him and everyone is talking about it

It feels vaguely threatening rather than her usual playful tone, and I’m not sure what to make of it. What’s her point? I’ve broken every other rule, so what’s another?

I’m not embarrassed that I kissed him.

I liked it.

I kind of want to do it again.

Not kind of.

But I also don’t want everyone knowing about it and gossiping.

It was a private moment.

The shower stops, and my breath hitches as the door opens to a cloud of steam.

And Rook.

Wearing nothing but a towel slung over his hips.

Skies, he’s magnificent.

I can’t help but stare at his wet chest, the planes of his stomach, and a trail of dark hair that disappears under the towel. My imagination is good, but reality is even better. He uses another towel to rough up his wet hair, his forearm and biceps flexing, sending liquid heat dripping from my navel.

I touch my bottom lip, thinking of our kiss.

His gaze jumps to mine, and there’s no use pretending I wasn’t staring.

“Sorry,” I say, looking down. Eventually, I glance back up to find him watching me, the barest curve teasing the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

That answer makes me smile in spite of everything, and I hold up my phone.

“Everyone knows,” I say. “About . . . the kiss.”

We haven’t given it voice, and it almost feels forbidden to say out loud.

He approaches, and I catch a whiff of his clean scent as he leans down to peer at my screen—a droplet slides off the tip of his hair and lands on my hand. I don’t wipe it away. I’m officially pathetic.

“That girl is something,” he says, straightening up and returning to his side of the room. As he turns around, I notice he has another tattoo on his lower back. Lines joined by tiny stars. I think they might be the constellations he told me about.

“Do you know her?”

“We’ve met,” he says dryly but doesn’t elaborate.

“I guess someone saw us that night.”

“Would Domino have said something?”