Chapter 4: What she watches.

The house had been empty for three days.

Richard and Aunt Helena had left for a "mini-moon"—some resort in the mountains with hot springs and couples' massages and no cell service. Clarisse had smiled and waved from the driveway as their car disappeared, her aunt's hand fluttering out the window like a pale bird.

If it was another day she would have been excited. But that meant three days just Devane and her.

They'd barely spoken.

Clarisse kept to her room. Devane kept to the garage or the streets or wherever it was she went when the motorcycle screamed away at odd hours.

Their paths crossed in the kitchen once—Clarisse was at the sink filling a glass of water, Devane was grabbing a beer from the fridge. Clarisse had opened her mouth to speak. Devane had turned her back and walked out before a single word could form.

The note under the door might as well have been a dream.

By the third night, Clarisse was crawling out of her skin. She felt like an ant in the mansion.

She'd reorganized her closet three times. She'd done two hundred pliés. She'd counted the calories in an apple and then eaten nothing at all.

At eleven p.m., she gave up on sleep and went downstairs for tea and stay on the patio for the cool night breeze.

The living room lights were off. The television was on. It's blue light flickered across the walls, the furniture, the high ceiling.

Clarisse paused in the hallway, squinting, trying to make sense of the sounds—low, rhythmic, a woman's voice gasping, a man's voice groaning, a wet, repetitive slap that she recognized before her brain could find words for it.

Immediately her face went hot.

She bit her lip hard. She should turn around, walk back upstairs, pretend she'd never come down. That was the polite thing to do.

She wasn't a saint but, how could someone be bold enough to play it out where everyone at home could view their s**ual thought?

Clarisse had never been good at sane.

She stepped forward. The floorboard creaked under her bare foot.

Her eyes found Devane who was sprawled on the couch.

Legs wide, one arm draped over the backrest the other hand resting on her stomach, fingers splayed, utterly still.

Her black hoodie was unzipped, revealing the black sports bra beneath. Her jean shorts hung low on her hips. The TV light painted her in shades of blue and shadow, catching the sharp line of her jaw, the dark glint of her eyes.

Her eyes were watching the screen with the expression of someone watching a nature documentary.

Clarisse could have sworn she saw her yawn at some point.

On screen, a woman arched her back and moaned.

Clarisse's throat went dry.

She must have made a sound—a breath, a gasp, something—because Devane's eyes slowly shifted. Found her in the darkness.

She didn't flinch. Didn't scramble for the remote. Didn't blush or stammer or show a single crack in her composure. She just looked at Clarisse, standing frozen in the hallway, and her mouth curved into that familiar almost-smile.

"Enjoying the show, Bright?"

Clarisse's voice came out strangled. "I was just—I didn't mean to—"

"You didn't mean to what? Walk in on me?" Devane tilted her head. The blue light caught the scar through her eyebrow. "Door's right there. You're still standing in it."

Clarisse should have left. Every rational cell in her body screamed at her feet to move, to retreat, to flee back upstairs and lock her door and never speak of this again.

Her feet remained glued to the floor. Her eyes fixated on the screen.

On the screen, the woman gasped again, louder, saying a name Clarisse didn't catch.

Devane's gaze didn't waver. She was still looking at Clarisse, still wearing that faint, unreadable expression, still sprawled across the couch like she owned it.

"Why are you watching that?" Clarisse heard herself asked pulling her eyes from the screen.

"Because I want to."

"In the living room?"

"It's my house. I'll watch what I want where I want."

"It's my house too now."

The words hung in the air. A challenge. Clarisse hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to plant her feet and lift her chin and meet Devane's eyes like she had any right to.

Devane's expression flickered. Something sharp and intrigued.

Then she laughed. A low and rough sound. "Fine. It's your house too. Sit down, then. Watch with me."

"I don't—I don't want to watch—"

"You're still standing there."

Clarisse's pulse hammered in her throat. The light from the TV flickered across Devane's face, her throat, the dark ink of the tattoo on her wrist. The woman on screen was forgotten now—just noise, just a backdrop to the tension crackling in the dark living room.

"Unless," Devane said slowly, "you'd rather I turn it off."

She picked up the remote. Held it between two fingers. Raised an eyebrow.

Clarisse should have said yes. Turn it off. Please. Let's pretend this never happened.

Instead, she said nothing, just kept boring her lips harder.

Devane's smile widened a fraction.

"That's what I thought." She set the remote down and let the tv on.

The sounds continued—moans, gasps, the rhythmic slap of flesh—but Devane was no longer watching the screen. Her eyes were on Clarisse, Steady and heavy.

Her hand, still resting on her stomach, moved slightly. Her fingers traced a slow line along the waistband of her jeans.

Clarisse's eyes tracked the movement. She gulped taking in the sight of Devane's toned stomach.

"You're blushing," Devane observed.

"I'm not."

"You are. I can see it from here." Devane's voice dropped. Her voice coming out husky "Come closer and I'll prove it."

Clarisse's feet carried her forward. One step. Two. She stopped at the edge of the couch, close enough to see the rise and fall of Devane's chest, the faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone, the white edge of the bandage peeking out from under her sports bra.

Devane looked up at her through heavy-lidded eyes.

"You're shaking again."

"I know."

"Scared?"

"No." The word came out fast. Clarisse swallowed. "Yes. I don't know."

"Which is it?"

"All of it."

Devane nodded slowly. Like she understood. Like she'd been expecting that answer all along. Her hand moved again—not toward Clarisse, but toward the remote. She lifted it, pointed it at the screen, and pressed pause.

The silence was deafening.

"Tell me something, Bright." Devane's voice was low, intimate, a knife wrapped in velvet. "That boyfriend of yours. The basketball player. What's his name?"

Clarisse's stomach dropped. "How do you know about—"

"I make it my business to know things." Devane's eyes were unblinking. "Does he touch you like that?"

She nodded toward the frozen screen. The woman's arched back. The man's hands gripping her hips.

Clarisse's throat closed. She thought of Marcus. His hands. His voice in the dark. You'd be prettier if you lost five pounds. Don't be so uptight. Just relax. Why can't you just be normal?

"No," she whispered. "He doesn't."

"What does he touch you like?"

The question was a blade. Precise. Devastating. Clarisse felt it slide between her ribs and lodge there.

"Like I'm something he owns," she said. The honesty shocked her. "Like I'm a trophy. Like I should be grateful."

Devane's jaw tightened. A flicker of something dark passed through her eyes—anger, maybe, or recognition. She sat up slowly, swinging her legs off the couch, planting her bare feet on the floor. Her knees brushed Clarisse's thighs.

"And what do you want?" Devane asked. "To be touched like you're something precious? Like you're something dangerous? Like you might break?"

Clarisse couldn't breathe. Devane was so close now. The heat of her body radiated through the inches between them. Clarisse could smell her—smoke and soap and something electric.

"I don't know," Clarisse said. "I've never—"

"Never what?"

"Never been asked." She stared down at her hands tugging at the hem of her dress, "Especially by a girl."

The confession landed like a stone in still water. Devane stared at her. The mask slipped—just for a second, just a crack—and Clarisse saw something raw underneath. Something hungry. Something just as terrified as she was.

Then Devane stood up.

The moment shattered. Devane grabbed the remote, shut off the TV, and plunged the room into darkness. Clarisse heard her move—bare feet on hardwood, the rustle of her hoodie, the clink of her phone being grabbed from the coffee table.

"Devane—"

"Go to bed, Clarisse."

The name stopped her. Not Bright. Clarisse. She hadn't said it like that since the bathroom. Like it mattered.

"Are we going to talk about this?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Devane paused at the foot of the stairs. Her silhouette was framed in the dim glow of the corner light.

"Because if we talk about it," she said quietly, back to Clarisse, "I won't be able to pretend it didn't happen. And pretending is the only thing keeping my hands off you."

The words hit Clarisse like a physical blow. She stood frozen in the dark living room, the echo of the paused screen still burned into her retinas, Devane's confession ringing in her ears.

By the time she found her voice, Devane was gone.

°°°°°

Clarisse didn't sleep.

She lay in bed, the ceiling unchanged, the house too quiet, the note under her pillow burning like a secret. Her body was a live wire. Every nerve ending fired at once. She could still hear the sounds from the TV. She could still see Devane's hand tracing her waistband. She could still feel the heat of Devane's knees brushing her thighs.

Pretending is the only thing keeping my hands off you.

Clarisse pressed her palm against her stomach. Her skin was hot. Her heart was a war drum. She thought about Marcus—his hands, his voice, his weight on top of her—and felt nothing but a cold, distant dread.

Then she thought about Devane. And it was pure bliss.