Page 41 of Summer

Then again, she used that same casual grace to suggest I find someone to marry. I’m not sure what I expected – she’s going to be gone in a few months. Nothing will remain of her except a closet of clothes my parents bought and the charred remains that won’t even be hers.

I swallow down my discomfort and gladly act as chaperone for my brother and Summer back to the carriage. Aaoric snoozes, his face pressed up against the glass of the carriage. The carriage bumps, and Aaoric lets out a loud snore, causing Summer to giggle.

I cannot settle the agitation that refuses to leave my body after my talk with Mother. There was an unspoken threat there, an or else, that grates on my nerves. What’s the worst they could do? Purchase a human male to be my husband?

The carriage stops at our estate, and Aaoric jolts to life, wiping a line of drool from his jaw. He bids us farewell and heads to his room, not bothering to wait for us.

Summer follows me up the stairs to our floor, but she doesn’t part when it comes to her room. Instead, she follows me, and I hesitate outside my door. The hall is empty, there’s no one to see us, no one to see her slip into my room this late at night.

“Do you need something?” I ask.

“You’re still angry,” she accuses.

“I’m not angry,” I counter.

“There’s a saying on Earth – never go to bed angry.” She opens the door to my room and walks in as if it were her own. I grumble and push after her, closing the door quietly behind me.

She hasn’t been in my room before, and she takes her time to explore it. Her fingers trace over my desk, where my comm device sits amidst a mound of papers. She turns to my armoire, to the window seat that looks across the swaying purple grass of the estate. It’s one of my favorite views.

At long last she regards my bed – large, unmade, so inviting after the long night at the ball. She sits on the edge of it, leaning back as she watches me. I am frozen, unsure what to do.

“Are you going to tell me now?” Summer asks, tilting her head. Her black hair falls off her shoulder, displaying a small bit of collar bone. I try desperately to drag my gaze from it, my stomach flipping at the sight.

“It’s nothing,” I say, my face heating, my gaze averted to the floor. I feel more than hear her stand from the bed and approach me. I don’t look up until she’s before me, watching me intently.

“Do you always suppress your wants?” she asks.

I blink at her – of course I do. That’s what it means to be female in this world – to bury things deep down and think only of others. A lady should be charitable above all things, never selfish.

“I see,” she says, frowning. She reaches out to push my hair behind my shoulder, her fingers trailing fire as they gently brush my skin. She traces the curve of my neck, and I bite my lip to suppress a groan. I want her mouth there, I want her under me, on me…

She steps back, and her absence hits me in the gut. “You speak your mind when it involves others, but not yourself. Curious.” Her assessment hurts, but it’s not untrue. My focus is wholly on my brother and his inability to marry who he wishes. He can stand up for himself – he’s done it for years. Yet I tried to reason with our parents, tried to talk them out of their attempt to trap my brother in a loveless marriage.

When Mother told me I must marry this season, I stood there and took it.

“You’re angry about something…” She continues, watching me closely. I want to kiss her to stop her from speaking. I want to drag her to bed and forget how close her words have come to hitting their mark. “But you won’t speak about it, so it must involve you.”

“Come off it,” I say, shaking my head. Play it off, act as though it’s nothing.

“No,” she says, her voice sharp.

I glare at her, disliking her tone. How dare she talk to me like that? “How dare you speak to me like this? You don’t know me; you know nothing about me!”

“Does anyone?” Summer asks, and I swear she’s biting back a smile. Does it please her to rile me up like this?

“Yes, those who’ve been around me more than a few weeks,” I grind out.

“Like…Wrunga? She knows you?” When I don’t answer she shrugs. “Was she your first crush?”

“My what?” I ask, unable to keep my voice steady. Why did she pick Wrunga, of all the people she’s met that I’ve called friends?

“A crush. It is someone you fancy, someone you favor more than just a friend. Was she the first? Was she when you realized…?” She trails off.

I hate this attention on myself, this digging through my soul. It’s an awful form of torture, prying up the floorboards I’ve been careful to lay down and seal shut. “Do you fancy my brother?” I blurt out. Anything to divert her attention.

She blinks and barks a laugh. Then she sees my face, and her smile fades. “Aaoric? No. I don’t fancy males, never really have.” Then, after a few seconds pause, “Do you also fancy males?”

“No. I don’t think I do,” I admit, sighing. I believe her about Aaoric, which means her shared regard of who we are with is born of true indifference. I don’t understand the anger that comes with that realization.