Page 47 of Redline Communion

“Of course,” I mutter.

Rafe turns his head. “What?”

“Nothing. I missed the group email.”

His mouth almost moves, but the last fastening comes free before whatever answer he might have made reaches it.

The dress loosens and slides down my body, gathering around my feet in a pool of white fabric. I step out of it because standing there tangled somehow feels worse, though that leaves me exposed in front of a room full of people who continue undressing like this is the least remarkable part of their evening.

Just a regular Tuesday.

Rafe’s palm settles against my waist, warm and broad and familiar enough that I lean toward it before I can decide whether I meant to.

He notices.

Obviously.

“You good?”

“There has to be another question in your vocabulary.”

“That a no?”

“That’s me asking you to be creative.”

Dominic holds out the bowl, and Cassian takes it. The oil is dark enough to look almost like blood beneath the candlelight.

He dips two fingers into it, then pauses with his hand suspended between us.

For the first time tonight, he looks uncertain.

Not about the ritual.

About me.

That bothers me more than confidence would have.

“Do it,” I say.

His eyes lift to mine.

I don’t know whether I’m giving him permission or challenging him, and judging by the fraction of hesitation that follows, neither does he.

Good.

Cassian spreads the oil between his palms and places them against my shoulders.

Cold first, then warmth. Because the flower has apparently decided sequence is optional, the cold catches up again after his hands have already moved.

The scent rises between us, resinous and earthy, while his palms travel down my arms to my wrists, his thumbs passing across my palms before he takes more oil and continues over my collarbone, sternum, and waist.

Every movement is deliberate enough that I realize I’m not simply being touched.

I’m being prepared.

“This is the claim,” Cassian says.

I can’t tell whether he means the words for me or for everyone watching.