Page 69 of Iron Roses

I turn the shower on instead.

The water is hot. Not punishing, just sharp enough to wake me. I stand under the stream, letting it wash away the sweat, the ache, the memory I want to keep but can’t carry all day.

When I step back into the bedroom, a dress waits for me.

Not too formal. Not lazy either.

A soft cream tone, with thin straps and a low back. The kind of thing meant for daylight. For crowds. For being seen.

I hold it up. The hanger is still warm from his touch.

He’s back at the chair, elbows on his knees. Watching.

I slip it over my head.

The fabric brushes my thighs, whispers against my hips. I pull it into place, glancing once at the mirror.

He doesn’t speak. Of course he doesn’t.

But he watches the way it moves on me.

And for a second, I see her.

Giovanna. In this same mirror. Pulling a sleeve over her shoulder. Turning to ask if it looked too tight.

I blink.

The image is gone.

But the way he’s watching, like memory and wonder—it lingers.

I sit before the mirror, brushing out my hair.

He doesn’t look away. He stands, eyes fixed on me and he hands me the mask, watching as I place the piece of fabric over my face. Then his hand finds mine.

He leads me down the hall. The corridor smells faintly of polished wood and whatever cologne lingers on his shirt.

We're halfway past the second landing when the door to one of the guest rooms creaks open.

Lorenzo appears.

Bare-chested. Sleep-rumpled. In boxers.

A red-faced woman clings to his side, lips swollen, mascara smudged like a confession.

She giggles and disappears behind him.

Lorenzo raises an eyebrow. His gaze drops to our hands.

Then he smirks—tight, pointed, unwilling to say anything but saying everything.

“You’re giving her a ticket?” he says, voice rough with sleep. “Not me?”

Lorenzo’s smirk lingers. He nods, once, more to himself than us, then closes the door behind him.

Cassian doesn’t let go of my hand.

The car is parked under the western eaves of the drive. Pale light flickers off its polished surface. He opens the door for me, one hand resting at the small of my back as I slip in. His palm lingers there—a little longer than necessary.

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