Page 69 of Vengefully Matched

“I had an abortion,” she said. “And then I got an IUD, and I’ve never looked back. I thought about tying my tubes, but I have pretty bad PPMD, and the IUD really reduced gory periods and made that better, so I stuck with it.”

She waited, agonizingly long seconds, for a response.

“Thank you,” said Priscilla, raising a hand to Agatha’s shoulder. “Thank you for trusting me.” Realization dawned on her face. “That’s why you didn’t mind finding out what went wrong between me and Evie.”

Agatha nodded. “It’s a cruel thing to force anyone who doesn’t want to have a child to do it. Most of all for the child.”

Priscilla’s face was soft now. “I talked to her this morning.”

“You said so. How did that go?” They were laying themselves bare here, pressed up against each other, somewhat hiding from the law.

“It was good. She’s seeing someone else. She’s happy.”

“Good,” Agatha said, a tension she didn’t know she was carrying in her shoulders uncoiling. “That’s good.”

“It is,” Priscilla agreed. She paused. “Can I ask a personal question?”

“Of course,” said Agatha softly. And she would tell this woman anything in this moment of tenderness and truth. Anything she asked, even if it was about her total and utter lack of sexual prowess with the fairer sex.

“Do you ever regret it?”

She shook her head. “Not a day in my life. The staff were friendly and helpful, it was safe, and it was best for everyone involved.” She smiled. “We’re lucky to live in a time where reproductive health care is legal, and between a person with a uterus and their doctor.”

“Agatha,” said Priscilla. “You’re beautiful. All of you. Inside and out. I see you now. I didn’t before, but I see you now.”

“You say that to all the girls trapped with you in the Loculus, I’m sure.” She had to tease; it was so much emotion.

“I…” Priscilla started, but a cloud of purple smoke materialized, and she recognized that smell, the ginger and bergamot.

A tall, dark-haired devil stepped forward, smirking insouciantly.

“Lex,” said Priscilla, sounding relieved. Next to him stood Victoria Starnberger.

“Az said to bring someone who could get you two out of this.” She winked and gestured to the devil. Vickie was inexplicably dressed in a long-sleeved, billowy, white cropped button-down shirt and a pair of jean shorts cut so high that both globes of her ass were visible.

“What the devil are you wearing?” Priscilla started.

“I beg your pardon,” Lex interjected. “But that’s exceedingly rude, cursing the name of the very creature here to break you out, jailbird.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Or do you not want my help, Dirty Bertie?”

“I told you not to call me that,” said Priscilla through gritted teeth. Agatha did her best to ignore how adorable Priscilla was when enraged.

“Fine, fine. Give me a minute to examine this and determine the best way to defeat it.”

“Az is on his way,” Vickie offered, and then, gesturing to her outfit, “I was trying on things for Sultry Sunday. That boy is corrupt, and all. It’s the day in Hopelessly Teavoted where we all dress up like a pop culture reference, old or new, slutty if you want. This is my ‘Manchild’ ensemble.”

“You nailed that, you cheeky thing, you,” muttered Priscilla, and Agatha thought perhaps she ought to be put off, but it was the sort of jesting that told her Vickie had been like a sister to her for almost as long as Az had been her brother.

“Thank you. I do enjoy how my ass looks in this,” she said, leaning back to try to look. Lex did likewise, smiling wickedly.

The door opened, and Azrael barged in. “What did I miss?” His eyes darted from the glass coffin, where Agatha was pressed against his sister, to Lex, who had begun tapping gently on a seemingly invisible spot on one pane of the thick glass, and then to Vickie, where his eyes stopped.

“Fuck me sideways, sweetheart, did you have to wear those to a rescue?” It was almost comical, all of them trying to look at Vickie’s cheeks peeking out of the bottom of cutoff denim.

Vickie turned and sauntered up to him, tugging on the bow at the front of her shirt a little.

“What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, reaching around, and squeezing a handful of his girlfriend in each palm, “nothing appropriate for company.”