Page 86 of The Glass Empire
I came. The orgasm ripped through me, wave after wave, and I felt him follow a moment later, his hips stuttering against mine.
When it was over, he pulled out and disposed of the condom. I leaned against the wall, my legs shaking, my body aching.
He turned me around and kissed me. Soft this time. Almost tender.
"You're perfect," he said.
"I'm a mess."
"A beautiful mess."
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—white, monogrammed, the kind of thing that came in boxes of a hundred—and wiped the evidence of himself from my stomach. I watched him fold it, tuck it into his pocket.
"For later," he said.
"You're insane."
"I know."
He kissed me again and then he was gone, leaving me alone in the dark, my dress askew, my body trembling.
I leaned against the wall and tried to remember how to breathe.
The gala was still going when I returned.
I found my way to the bathroom, fixed my dress, fixed my hair. The reflection in the mirror was flushed, wild, the eyes of someone who had just been thoroughly claimed.
I didn't recognize her.
I didn't want to.
I walked back into the ballroom. The music was still playing, the couples still dancing, the champagne still flowing. Aleksander was in the corner, talking to a politician. Gabriel was on the balcony, staring at the stars. Nathan was nowhere to be seen.
I stood at the edge of the crowd and watched them.
The Mire family.
My family.
I was one of them now, whether I liked it or not.
21
The Photograph
The study was empty when I found it.
I hadn't been looking for anything specific. I'd been wandering again—the way I always wandered, my feet carrying me through rooms I didn't belong in, past doors that should have been locked. The gala was over, the guests gone, the house settling into its usual quiet hum. Aleksander was in his office, taking calls. Gabriel had gone to bed. Nathan was... somewhere. I didn't want to know where.
The study was dark, the fire burned low, the shadows pooling in the corners like water. I should have left. I should have gone back to my room, climbed into my bed, pretended I hadn't seen what I was about to see.
But I didn't.
I walked to the desk, my fingers trailing across the polished wood. The surface was clear—Aleksander was meticulous, his papers organized, his pens aligned. But there was a drawer that wasn't quite closed, a sliver of darkness that caught my eye.
I opened it.
Inside, there was a photograph.
