Page 93 of The Threads Between

“The patrol routes converge here,” I said, tracing a line on the map. My voice steady. “And here. The gap between rotations is approximately four minutes. Enough time to move a small group through if we are precise.”

“Precise,” Lily repeated. Her voice was slightly uneven.

“Extremely precise.” I let my hand drift along the map. Closer to where hers rested. “Timing is everything.”

Her fingers twitched toward mine. Through the bond, the urge hit us both—close the distance, touch, now.

She pulled her hands back, folding them in her lap instead.

Wise. Neither of us would survive actual contact. Not here. Not with an audience.

“What of the northern approach?” Garrick asked from his station by the fire. “You mentioned tunnels once.”

I straightened and put distance between myself and Lily before I did something unwise.

“The tunnels collapsed,” I said. “Father had them filled after my mother.”

The mention cut through the haze.

The discussion continued, ranging over entry points, contingencies, how many Weavers to bring, and how many to leave behind.

I contributed. Drew on years of knowledge about the Spire, the guards, and my father's patterns.

And through it all, the bond hummed.

Lily reached for a cup of water. Her throat moved as she swallowed. I swallowed too, my attention sharpening to the line of her neck in a way that had nothing to do with hydration.

I described the guard stations at the main gate. She crossed her legs beneath the table. The whisper of fabric against her thighs echoed through the bond.

Beth asked about interior defenses. I answered. I think I answered.

Lily traced an idle pattern on the table with her fingertip. The thought underneath—barely formed—revolved around what else those fingers might trace.

I choked on nothing.

“Are you quite alright?” Beatrice asked.

“Fine.” The word came out strangled. “Dry throat.”

Across the table, Lily's expression remained perfectly composed.

Through the bond, she was laughing.

Cruel woman, I thought, knowing she would feel it.

You love it, came her response.

God help me, I did.

The next hour was exquisite agony.

By the time Beth called for a recess, I could scarcely think. Every nerve was attuned to the woman across the table. Through the bond—her matching tension. The coiled heat low in her belly. Skin gone electric, oversensitive, aware of every brush of fabric. Every shift of air. She was as ruined as I was.

Neither of us moved.

If I touched her now, we would not make it out of this room.

People began to stand and move toward the kitchen where Diana had set out food.