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Lila felt it come upon her at last, the thick wall she’d built threatening to break inside her, snapped so easily by Dixon’s finger upon a small plastic screen.
She got to her feet quickly and stopped at the door to Tristan’s room, almost entering out of habit. Her boots shuffled on the threshold.
She didn’t belong there. She’d never belong there again. Some other woman filled her place now. A better one, if Tristan’s easy mood and lack of whiskey were any indication.
Dixon followed her to Tristan’s door and grabbed her hand, gently pulling her toward his room. He asked no questions. If he had, he might have torn her down with one careless word.
Perhaps this tightness, this engulfing and suffocating cloud, was some measure of how Tristan had felt when she’d left with La Roux the night of the Closing Ball.
If he’d even been telling the truth about his feelings.
Dixon pulled her into bed, holding her for a long time, lending her his solidity, his warmth, his care and attention. She needed it greatly for she had no idea what would happen at her trial. And in a world where she usually knew everything that would happen before it did, the uncertainty scared her to death.
Chapter 3
Lila woke beside a softly snoring Dixon, the stubble on his neck ticking her forehead, one heavy arm flopped around her hip. He twitched as her eyelashes fluttered against his bare chest, then stretched like a purring cat under the blankets. The mattress creaked. His muscles tightened and shook as he arched his back and yawned. The little nub of his tongue flattened against the bottom of his mouth.
Morning, he mouthed, smacking his lips.
Morning, she mouthed back, rubbing at her eyes. Everything came back to her in a rush: her impending trial, the fact that she might very well be tossed into slavery in a few hours, her ex-lover’s new girlfriend—Katia, the young, pretty, pleasant blonde.
Out of habit, Lila snapped up her palm on the bedside table.
No messages blinked back at her.
As chief of her family’s compounds and an heir, she’d always had dozens of messages waiting for her attention when she woke, penned by her militia subordinates or her spies. She had pressing matters to attend to the very second she rolled out of bed. But she no longer controlled her militia, and her spies had stopped contacting her when she could no longer pay their salaries. The chairwomen and primes on the High Council of Judges had also stopped messaging her, just like the senators of Bullstow. Back at the cottage, it had felt like a vacation. Now that she’d returned to New Bristol, it made her feel…
Lonely.
The feeling had grown since the day before.
Dixon lurched beside her. Papers rustled, and she heard the scratching of a pencil. He nudged her shoulder and held up his notepad.
Nervous? he’d scrawled.
“Yes.” Lila was glad she hadn’t succumbed to tears the night before. It wouldn’t do any good to show up before the disciplinary committee with swollen eyes, looking like an upset child who had dropped her ice cream on the street.
I’m coming with you.
Lila’s eyes bugged out. “You can’t come. If anyone sees your neck, they’ll—”
I’m a grown-ass man who can do what he pleases, and you’re one of my best friends. I’ll do what I want.
Lila reread the word best, not wanting to argue, knowing it made her selfish not to try. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to Dixon, but his was the only smiling face she’d seen in nearly a month.
Besides, it had been a while since she’d had a best friend.
Gods, she hoped he wasn’t just saying it to make her feel better on her last day of freedom. Perhaps he was lying; perhaps he just wanted something from her, just like the oracle. She needed to stop trusting her instincts.
She sat up and settled her feet on the cold wooden floor. “I don’t think you should go, Dixon. It might be dangerous. The Holguín family might come to gloat.”
The Holguíns don’t want to remind the protestors that they exist. The workborn might burn down another property. Trust me. The Holguíns will stay far away from Bullstow.
Lila slipped out of bed at last, wincing at her wrinkled t-shirt and trousers. She’d gotten a bit sweaty under so many layers, pressed against Dixon’s volcanic heat. But it was a nice change from the frigid cabin she’d stayed in for nearly a month.
Dixon hadn’t seemed to mind.
Rummaging through her bag, she picked out some clothes and toiletries and headed for the shower. For a moment, she was reminded of her vacation, those two brief weeks she’d spent in the apartment before her mother had decreed she was to become prime. She’d spent her days combing over data, trying to find La Roux, not that she’d even known who the Baron was at that point. At night, she’d climbed happily into bed with Tristan. In the mornings, she’d padded into the bathroom, snatching up her shampoo bottle that lived beside Tristan’s.
