Page 93 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

“It’s harder than it looks,” I tell Luke, to get his attention off them and back on me. I did exactly three aerial-arts workout classes with a friend while in college, and all three times I barely made it more than a handful of feet off the ground. Those silks hurt more than their flowy fabric suggests.

“I think it looks very hard,” he says. Some of the raw emotion that was etched in his eyes moments ago has fled. But his heart is a traitor to the rest of him, racing against mine. We’re eye to eye, mouth to mouth.

The languid music and his startling confession makes a carnal need to kiss him shoot through my body. As if he can tell, his hands tighten around my waist, face dipping toward mine. His breathing is unsteady, his lips brushing my own with each shaky exhale. It’s not enough. I need more.

The gnawing inside me is a sensation I’ve struggled to muster since entering the underworld. Hunger. But now I know what I’m really hungry for.

The next time his lips brush mine, I don’t let them leave. I pull him impossibly closer, pressing myself against him as his fingers dig into my sides. He takes advantage of my gasp and deepens the kiss.

It’s as if the masks aren’t between us, like the dancers aren’t above and the monsters aren’t around. He moves us backward without breaking the seal of our mouths, pushing through the wall of people ogling up at the performers. If they mind, I can’t bring myself to care. My head feels fuzzy, like it’s full of cotton. Nothing matters except the man in front of me and getting closer, closer, closer.

Another gasp escapes when my back bumps up against one of the columns. Luke has pushed us to the outskirts of the crowd. He finds the slit of my dress and grabs my thigh, his fingers trailing over my sheathed dagger and inching higher, hiking my dress up. I arch against him, a pleading whine escaping me when his hand dodges where I was hoping he was heading to cup my ass. Despite me being nearly the same height, thanks to my platforms, apparently it’s not enough for him. He lifts me so I’m supported by him and the column, a shift that puts us even closer so I can wrap my legs around his waist.

I should be worried about his shoulder, or if we’re making a spectacle—or, or, or. But I don’t care about any of it. I don’t even remember why we’re here. We should have never left the house, never left the bathroom. We could have been doing this for hours. We should have been—

My thoughts short circuit as his lips break away from mine to kiss my neck.

“What do you want?” he groans into my skin, voice ragged. It’s a question I’ve never been able to answer because no one’s ever truly asked me before.

“I want to— Fuck!”

“Where?” His gaze is desperate and dark with desire.

It’s like I got dunked in a cold plunge. Past him, the big hand on the clock is nearly aligned with the little hand inching toward twelve. I gasp, my dress cutting into me with the movement. “What? No, not that. I mean, yes, but— Look!”

I turn Luke toward the big omniscient moon looming over us, minutes away from midnight.

“We have to remove the masks,” I remind him, reaching for his first. But he evades my touch. Whatever spell was over us shatters as he drops me to my feet and rapidly blinks awareness back into his gaze. He’s looking around, confused, until his eyes latch onto something on the far wall behind me. Then they go nearly as wide as the clock moon.

I turn to see whatever has him so shaken. “What—”

“No!” His voice is sharp as his hands push me against the column so my back is pressed to it again. “We can’t remove the masks—not yet. It will reveal our identities to the hounds. We can’t leave this room until he comes. This is all leading up to the devil’s entrance.”

Of course it is. I should have known that except…except I’m so disoriented I temporarily forgot what we were here for. I lean against the column, clarity rushing back. The veil. We’re here for the veil. How could I forget that? How long were we making out? What the hell just happened?

“The eclipse,” Luke says, as if he can see the questions ricocheting through my mind. His own mind seems frantic, spinning like a hamster wheel. “Emotions are peaking the closer we get to the super blue-blood moon. Paired with the music, it’s easy for everything but our deepest desires to slide away. I thought I’d be immune to it to keep us on track, but”—he blows out an aggravated breath—“obviously not. I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what he’s apologizing for until I realize how red his mouth is. Blood red. I lick my lips and taste the metallic, salty tang. My chewed-up bottom lip didn’t stand a chance.

“What do we do?” I ask, still woozy. “The masks—”

“We need to split up.”

He did not just say that right now. “Don’t even.”

He shakes his head. “It’ll dilute our scent and give us the best chance at losing the hounds.”

I push off the column and jab a finger into his chest. “I’m not—”

I’m interrupted by his lips crashing into mine. All thoughts slip away, like a scoop of ice cream melting off the cone to meet its fate on the hot asphalt. It’s just us again, our mouths moving hungrily and his fingers gripping my jaw, making want erupt inside of me.

It’s a goodbye kiss and I hate him for it.

Well too fucking bad—I wasn’t ready to say goodbye at Beliar’s and I’m not ready to say goodbye now. I rip away first, ducking under the cage of his arm so I end up behind him on the edge of the dance floor. He spins to face me, reaching out to tug me back to him, but I evade his grasp.

“I’m not leaving you,” I tell him, lacing my words with heat. “We’re in this to—”

Together is lost to the feral symphony as my eyes hook on a portrait hanging on the wall behind him. It’s last in a line of many massive oil paintings. Gilded frames outline cutting images of men dressed in all-black corporate attire. Their dark gazes are fathomless and frigid, an air of power exuding from them. The black jagged glass crowns they wear make their identities inescapable.