Page 173 of Harbinger

Shea, on the other hand, drops fully onto the bed, bouncing once as her grin splits wide. “Soooo,” she says brightly, crossing her arms. “How is training going?”

“Fine.” I stalk to the vanity, trying to remember what I was doing before Bishop just turned my world upside down.

Again.

I sit and reach for a pot of rouge, stopping when I look in the mirror and find my face is roughly the color of a ripe tomato. I grab the powder instead and dab at my cheeks like it might undo whatever damage has already been done.

Shea squints at me in the reflection. “You can’t pretend like that didn’t just happen.” She leans forward, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you kiss him?”

I make a noncommittal noise and start on a second layer of powder. It still doesn’t help the situation on my cheeks.

That only winds her up more. “Seven hells,” she breathes. “Did you?”

“They slept together,” Vessica says calmly, starting to strip out of her uniform. “And Arden broke his heart.”

“What?” Shea shrieks—and I yell at the exact same time.

I spin on the stool toward Vessica. “How did you … Were you …?” My mind whirls with every possible explanation and keeps landing on the only reasonable answer. “Did he say something?”

She slips out of her pants. “No.”

Relief and indignation collide, and I sputter, “Then how did you know?”

“I didn’t,” she admits.

Void swallow me. Nothing gets past her. Me, on the other hand? “You were bluffing.”

“Not exactly.” She slips the gown from its hanger, admiring it for a moment. “He’s been in a better mood since you arrived. Lighter. Less … him.” She looks right at me. “But a few days ago, that stopped.”

My stomach drops.

“Plus, it was written all over his face when you opened the door,” she says so matter-of-factly that I can’t scrounge up even an ounce of anger.

Shea flops backward on the bed, pressing a hand to her chest. “Will you meet him for the Turning?”

Of course they heard him ask. It seems they didn’t miss anything—even the things that weren’t said.

But Turning the Threshold? Taking that step even as friends? “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

Shea groans with disappointment, but Vessica meets my eyes again and says in a low voice, “If you aren’t sure, don’t. The door always remembers.”

Because once you cross certain thresholds, there’s no returning.

Vessica steps into her gown, but it feels like she’s stuck a dagger into my back.

Only it’s not a training exercise for me.

It’s a warning.

THIRTY

The sounds of the party reach my bedroom by the time Shea manages to help me into my gown. Standing in front of the mirror, I wonder if it’s safe for Bishop to see me like this after …

A tingle races down the back of my neck as if reminding me that’s the entire point of a dress like this.

Its wine-red color does something dangerous against my skin, as if it’s too rich. Too alive in a way that draws attention instead of hiding. Especially once my hair is pinned up in dark curls, allowing the collar to rise the full length of my throat. Lace sleeves stretch to anchor neatly to my middle fingers with a little loop that allows free movement of my hands while everything on my front half feels controlled. The same can’t be said of the back of the gown. Because while the high neckline shields my chest intentionally, when I turn, the back falls away in a single, uninterrupted sweep of fabric, leaving me bare from the nape of my neck to the small hollow between my hips. The skirt skims my hips and thighs, fluid against my skin with a slit that shows the line of one leg just enough to feel deliberate.

“Don’t overthink it,” Shea whispers, adjusting her fur stole. “He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”