Page 11 of The Obedient Lie
Not the sound of boxes being dragged across the wood floors, not the pastel blur of whatever blanket she’d thrown over the couch like this was a sleepover.
It washer.
Emilia Adams.
Pink-cheeked andtoosmiley. Wearing one of those tiny cheer skirts and a sweater so soft-looking I wanted tobitethe damn sleeve just to see if it was real.
She turned when I entered, like she’d beenwaiting.
And fuck, shesmiled.
“Hi,” she chirped, like this was a movie and she was cast as the sunshine love interest sent to melt the bad boys. “Sorry for the mess—I’ll get it sorted, I promise.”
I didn’t say a word. Just kept walking.
If I looked at her for too long, I was going to say something I couldn’t take back.
She was…bright. Loud without even talking.
The kind of pretty that made the hallway feeldimwhen she left it.
And worse — she wastrying.
Trying to be friendly. Trying to be sweet. Trying to act like she hadn’t kissedmeand mybrotherwith the same damn mouth at a party where her boyfriend was ten feet away.
I should’ve hated her.
Hell, maybe Idid.
But the thing about fire?
It draws you in even while itburns.
She held up a cookie tin like we were supposed tocare.
“I brought snacks. Chocolate chip.”
God.I could feel Luca going stiff beside me.
“This isn’t your home,” he said flatly, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking.
It was the exact thing I’d been thinking.
But of course, she just laughed.
Or maybe it was a giggle.
All golden girls laugh the same way — like they’ve never had to bleed for anything. Like the world is theirs and they’re justwaitingfor you to fall in line.
“I know,” she said, eyes too wide and warm. “Just trying to be nice.”
That’s what pissed me off the most.
Theniceness.
She didn’t understand what this house was. This dorm.
It wasn’t for light or sweetness.
