Chapter 592 | Housekeeping Shoes

Chapter 592: 592 | Housekeeping Shoes

"I’m fine."

"You haven’t said a word in two minutes."

"I don’t have anything to say." Her knee pressed harder against mine, hot enough that I could feel it through both layers of uniform fabric. "Ayame’s mother gave you her blessing to date her daughter, and then her daughter dragged you into a closet and marked you like territory, and I’m supposed to sit here and have opinions about it when I haven’t even figured out what I’m doing tonight."

"Seven o’clock is eleven hours away."

"Seven o’clock is in eleven hours, Monroe, and I have nine pages of legal documentation that I drafted at midnight because I couldn’t sleep, and I called Fox at two in the morning and she asked me what I wanted if I won, and I said something that I am absolutely not repeating in public, and now Ayame’s mother is flying back to San Francisco to make soup for my father because apparently someone has to keep that house warm while I’m here ruining my entire life over a lottery winner who can’t keep his hands to himself."

She said all of that in one breath, her voice never rising above a whisper, her face never changing expression. If you weren’t sitting right next to her, you would think she was discussing weather patterns or cafeteria menu options. But her hand had found my wrist under the table, and her fingers were wrapped around it tight enough to leave marks, and the heat coming off her palm was hot enough to sting.

I turned my wrist over and laced my fingers through hers. She went rigid for half a second, then let out a breath that smelled like French mineral water and expensive toothpaste, and her grip loosened just enough that I could feel her pulse hammering against my thumb.

"You said something to Fox at two in the morning," I repeated quietly.

"I told you I’m not repeating it."

"I’m not asking you to repeat it." I pulled her hand up under the table, pressed her palm flat against my thigh, and held it there. "I’m asking if you meant it."

Blair Davenport, heir to Davenport Industries, wielder of S-rank Hellflame, owner of two hundred romance novels hidden in a false-bottom drawer, looked at me with those ice-blue eyes that had scared half the academy into silence. Her red hair caught the morning light from the windows and turned to fire at the edges. The burn scar at her collar peeked above the neck of her blazer, and I could see the faint shimmer of heat distortion rising from her shoulders.

"Yes," she said, so quiet I almost missed it. "I meant every word."

The seventh ring detonated.

Not burned, not flared, not pulsed. Detonated, like a flashbang going off inside my skull, white-hot and blinding and so loud that for a second I couldn’t hear anything except the roar of it. My vision went white at the edges, and I felt the graft slam against my ribs, and my hand tightened on Blair’s hard enough to make her gasp.

When my sight came back, her face was three inches from mine. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, and her cheeks had gone the color of her hair. Under the table, her hand was still pressed against my thigh, and she hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t run.

"Monroe." Belle’s voice came from across the table, sharp enough to cut glass. "Your face is doing something concerning, and Cross’s lecture starts in ninety seconds."

I blinked. The dining hall came back into focus around me, all the noise and motion and students moving toward the exits. Naomi was watching me with her head tilted, her pink eyes soft, one hand still resting on my other leg like she was anchoring me to the chair. Belle had her laptop open again, her fingers hovering over the keys, her amber eyes flicking between Blair’s face and mine like she was trying to decide which column to update first.

"We’re going to be late," Naomi said gently.

"Then we should leave." I stood up, still holding Blair’s hand, and pulled her to her feet beside me. She came without resistance, her fingers still tangled with mine, her face still flushed red from her hairline to her collar. The housekeeping shoes looked ridiculous under her tailored uniform, flat black rubber against crisp black fabric, and she had never looked more beautiful.

Belle made a sound that was half laugh, half groan, and closed her laptop with a snap. "I’m going to need a bigger spreadsheet."

"You always say that."

"I always mean it." She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder, falling into step beside Naomi as we headed for the dining hall doors. "Naomi, you’re on left flank. Davenport, you’re on Monroe’s right. I’ve got rear observation, which means I’m documenting everything you do with your hands for the next forty-eight hours."

"Fox, if you document my hands, I will burn every spreadsheet you’ve ever made."

"You can try, Davenport. My backups have backups, and Mendoza encrypts them for me because he thinks I’m scary." Belle smiled, and it was the smile of a woman who had grown up counting every dollar and knew exactly what everything was worth. "Welcome to the squad. We have snacks on Tuesdays, therapy on Thursdays, and emotional crises every other weekend. Monroe handles most of those personally."

Blair’s hand squeezed mine once, hard, and then she let go. She walked ahead of us toward the doors with her chin up and her shoulders back, the grey cuff of my sweater disappearing under her sleeve as she adjusted her blazer. Her legs in black tights moved in short strides because the housekeeping shoes didn’t have heels, and she looked wrong and right at the same time, like a painting hung at an angle that somehow made it more interesting.

Naomi fell into step beside me, her shoulder brushing mine.

"She’s going to be a lot of work," she said softly.

"Yeah."

"More than me. More than Misato. Probably more than Aurora and Addison combined."

"Probably."

Naomi’s hand found mine, warm and callused from nine years of hauling nets, her shell necklace clicking softly against her collarbone as she walked. "Good thing you’re stubborn."

We walked out of the dining hall into the morning sun, four bite marks on my neck, eighteen days on my clock, a weapon being built in Santa Barbara, a contract waiting for tonight, and a woman in housekeeping shoes who had finally stopped running.