Page 62 of Nikolay

And then, because apparently destroying my equilibrium in under two seconds was enough for one evening, he turned for the stairs.

Just like that.

No waiting to see whether I followed. No second look. No hesitation.

He simply left the invitation hanging there between us and walked away as if the answer had already begun.

I called Kyra over. “I need my break.”

Her brows rose a fraction, but she only nodded toward the service corridor. “Go.”

I was already moving.

I did not look back.

The employee corridor hit me like cold truth after the velvet lie of the main floor. Purple light fell away behind me. Music dulled to a pulse in the walls. What remained was white fluorescence, concrete, metal doors, and the ugly, practical spine of Obsidian exposed at last.

I walked faster than I needed to.

Not running. I was not about to give myself that kind of drama in a hallway full of cleaning supplies and employee lockers. But there was enough urgency in my stride that my boots struck sharper against the concrete than usual, and by the time I reached the locker room door, I had gone from overheated to furious about being overheated, which at least felt a little more like myself.

The staff locker room was spacious, comfortable, and blessedly vacant when I entered.

I yanked my locker open.

Inside sat my usual emergency kit: folded spare shirt, extra tights, a travel pack of tampons, aspirin, lip gloss, little packets of stain remover, and two pairs of underwear because a sexually healthy woman who worked at Obsidian learned demonstrations often led to damp panties. I grabbed the hot-pink boy shorts because they were clean and soft, and I was too annoyed to care whether the color made me look like a human valentine under my uniform later. Then I took the pack of cleaning wipes from the shelf, slammed the locker shut with my hip, and headed for the private employee restroom at the end of the hall.

I locked the door behind me and stood there for a second with my eyes shut.

Just breathing.

Just trying to get my skin back under my own authority.

Then I set the wipes and clean panties on the counter, hooked my thumbs into the sides of my underwear, and shoved them down so I could deal with my intimate disaster.

“Well,” I muttered to my reflection. “I really enjoyed that demonstration.”

I cleaned myself methodically because method was a kind of dignity when the alternative was standing in a restroom feeling wrecked by two men for entirely different reasons. The wipes were cool against overheated skin. I used one, then another, taking my time because rushing only made me more aware of how sensitive I was. My thighs twitched once when the chill hit the slickest part of me, and I hissed out a breath through my teeth.

Jesus.

I dropped the ruined boy shorts to my ankles and stepped out of them.

They were black lace. Pretty, impractical, and embarrassingly soaked. I picked them up between two fingers, folded them smaller on instinct, and set them aside while I tugged the hot-pink pair into place. The cotton hugged me clean and snug, not sexy in the least, which for some reason made me want to laugh. Or maybe cry. Hard to say.

When that was done, I straightened my skirt, braced both palms on the counter, and bent over the sink while I turned on the faucet.

Cold water ran clear and sharp.

I wet a paper towel first and pressed it to the back of my neck. The shock of it made me suck in a breath. Then I cupped my hands under the stream and splashed drops of water there directly, once, twice, three times, until the heat under my skin backed off enough to stop feeling like a fever. The ringlets that had escaped my high ponytail dripped cool water down the side of my throat. I caught them with my fingers and pressed my damp palms flat to the counter again, looking at myself in the mirror like I might find some explanation there for why destiny apparently had the sense of humor of a drunk sadist.

My lipstick had held. Barely.

My cheeks were still pink. My eyes looked too bright.

“You are a grown-ass woman,” I told the face in the mirror. “Get a grip.”

It was not a very inspiring speech, but it was what I had.