Page 58 of The Fake Divination Offense
Detached thoughts bob through my head while I gape at the reporter.
Answer the question. Just—saysomething.
Weak. You’re so weak. You should be handling this better.
Alexo grabs the reporter’s wrist and yanks the recording device down to him.
“Hi,” he says, smiling sweetly. But the way he’s gripping the reporter’s arm counters that, his knuckles white. “I’m Alexo Warden, a follower of Urzoth’s. And while I haven’t been a follower for long, I can say that assuming all Urzoth followers believe in stoic, emotionless strength is antiquated. Not that any programs like the ones you’ve mentioned have beenproperlyannounced, but if they had been, you can certainly see how natural it would be to connect them to a church that promotes strength. What is stronger than getting the assistance you need? In being able to admit that you need help? Especially for children. Don’t children deserve strength like that?”
The reporter winces and subtly tries to pull his hand out of Alexo’s grip. “Well, I—”
“Have you had a chance to make a donation to Thrive Children tonight?” Alexo gives him a honeyed smile, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and releases his fingers, one by one.
The reporter snatches his hand away. “Uh—I don’t—”
“I’ll have someone from the organization contact you to make sure you get the chance,” Alexo says. “This is for the kids, after all. Isn’t it?”
The reporter straightens with a sniff. “Of course. No further questions.”
“Oh, I have something else to say.” Alexo waves for the recording device to come back up, and the guy obeys, albeit with a slightlywhat the fuck is he going to say nowlook.
But Alexo says into it, “Remember to keep dancing.”
His face drops into a searing glare that has the reporter cringing in surprise.
Without another word, Alexo loops his arm around my waist in mimicry of how I’m still holding him and wheels me away.
What the—
What just happened?
A publicist, not Treva, rushes to us as we climb the steps for the gala. “I caught the end of that—I’msosorry, those werenotthe questions he was approved to ask.”
“Just make sure he’s encouraged to make a donation. Abigone,” Alexo tells him, and the publicist hurries off.
I’m staring down at Alexo, my chest somehow both crushing in and ballooning out, weighed down in horror and free-floating from… from…him.
The inside of the hotel is glamoured up in the way big, flashy charities go all out to attract big, flashy donors. But everything is a blurred haze, dripping chandeliers and fancy-dressed people; a watercolor background for Alexo, who steers me through the room until we push through a set of swinging doors into a utility hall, the wood flooring swapped for practical linoleum.
A few waiters and other staff mill around, but for the most part, Alexo and I have some privacy where he tucks us up in a corner.
He twists our hands together and holds the mass against his chest. “Are you all right?”
Am I all right.
If the reporter publishes that interview, I’ll have yet another thing my parents and I don’t talk about. Yet another thing Urzoth supporters will yell at me for.
Alexo stood up for me. He stepped in, and not only put that reporter in his place, but demandedmoneyfrom the man.
Gods, that was sexy.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I can’t make it louder. Ineedto, need to shout it from the high-rise rooftop.
He grins. “It was my absolute pleasure, trust me. I so rarely get to tell people off who deserve it.” His grin slips, dimming a fraction. “What he said—”
“I, um—” My tongue feels swollen, words jamming up, but I exhale and anchor fast to—“Why did you say that, at the end?Remember to keep dancing? You said it before. What is that?”
Alexo goes from concerned to… sad.
