Page 101 of Total Exposure

“No one’s kicking you out,” I say.

“No, but you’re leaving, I can feel it. So either help me down the stairs or get the hell out of my way.”

She shoves me to make her point and then her foot is hovering over empty space—

I pull her back a second time. “Fine,” I hiss. “Fine. I’ll take you down the stairs. Just… be fucking careful, will you?”

“I will.” Her voice is soft through her smile.

She steps very carefully as I lead her. Much more carefully than she was before. And the fear I had begins to fade. She will not fall and break her neck. She will not stumble into a hundred-year-old window and cut herself to pieces. She will be fine.

Unless, that is, I fuck her up again.

I hesitate when we get down into the grand foyer. “Where do you want to go now?”

“Outside,” she says. “I want to sit on that swing with you.”

“Evangeline,” I growl. “You’re completely naked. It’s nineteen degrees outside. We’re not going outside.”

“I’m kidding.” And then she giggles. Like… actually giggles. As if trying my patience was the cutest thing she’s ever done in her life.

I smile. Reluctantly.

Maybe not so reluctantly.

I’m going to miss her.

“You seem to think I need to practice, so take me to that violin. You might as well be the first person to hear me play in a decade.”

I stay absolutely still. Probably even hold my breath.

“Ix?” she says. “Did you hear me?”

I nod. Exhale. Then clear my throat and say, “Yeah. Yup. It’s down here. Stay close to me. I don’t want you to fall again.”

Her small hands wrap around my bicep, squeezing like she never wants to let me go.

I’m so sorry, I want to say. I’m so sorry you’re part of this game. If I could take it back, I would. But I can’t.

But I can’t. Because I’m a coward. And not only that, I’m playing as well.

I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

There are no more incidents as I lead her down the hallway to the library. And I can’t help thinking back to that first day I came here. How wrong I was to assume that her instrument would be the most interesting thing in this house. I pictured her unable to leave it behind when in reality she had almost no interest in it at all.

My intuition—my infamous intuition—failed me.

How many other things have I gotten wrong?

“Do you want to stand in front of the window?” I ask. Because I feel like… I have no idea who she is right now. I can’t even begin to predict what she wants out of this night.

“No,” she says. “I want you to sit on the couch. It’s yellow, right? Crushed velvet? Something my mother would hate because it’s too… romantic.”

I stare at the yellow couch and remember back to her first night here. When she was in a blind panic. When she raced to the bathroom to hide. When she came out, wandered around, and then crumpled to the floor after she saw the violin waiting for her. How she slept, shivering with cold, desperately trying to cover herself with a blanket that would never be able to cover enough. How she never came back to this room again.

How wrong I got it.

How badly I have already fucked this up.