Page 122 of Cold Mercy

Fuck. She said it like she knows the answer.

I look at her first, then at Maya, then back at her.

“You really don’t waste time,” I tell Maya with a small laugh. “Just like your brother.”

She beams. “So? Yes or no?”

“No.” My voice is steady. “Don’t have anyone.”

Maya lets out a victorious sound. “Single! Perfect!”

Sophia pretends she’s focused on the fire, but her fingers tighten in the hem of her sleeve. When Maya leans in again, I already know the next question is coming.

“Okay, then. Do you like someone?”

James groans. “Maya, that’s two questions! You’re cheating!”

The circle laughs, but Maya just shrugs. “He can answer or drink.”

The real answer is staring at me from across the fire. Arms crossed over her chest, lips parted just slightly, the faintest tension in her jaw as if she’s bracing for something.

Sophia wants to pretend she doesn’t care, but she’s waiting.

“Yeah,” I say, my eyes locked on hers. “I like someone, have for a while.”

Sophia’s head shifts, barely a movement, but enough. Like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Maya groans dramatically. “Nooo! Another one taken by the universe! This is bullshit!”

Laughter erupts around the circle as James shoots me a quick, knowing grin, a stark contrast to Charles, who looks like he wants to rip my throat out with his bare hands.

Elizabeth is already tipsy, which means I’m officially terrified. Last time she hit tequila, she called me a caveman. So when the bottle reaches her, and everyone waits for her to pick the next victim, I silently pray she chooses one of her friends instead of turning this circle into my personal hell.

I lean back on my hands, legs stretched out, tumbler of whiskey resting between my thighs. Elizabeth’s eyes sweep around the group, mischievous as hell, until they land right on me.

Shit. She grins wide enough to show teeth… then swings her gaze to Sophia.

“My precious Sophia Moreau,” she declares in that high, drunk, sing-song voice of hers. “Truth or dare?”

Sophia doesn’t even blink. “I swear to God, Elizabeth, don’t.”

Elizabeth does a tiny wiggly dance in her seat, absolutely delighted with herself. “Truth or dare, sweetheart.”

“Truth, Mrs. Almost-Calloway.” Their eyes hold, a string pulled tight between them. Best friends who know every weak spot and aren’t afraid to poke.

Elizabeth grins, wicked and glowing. “When was the last time you got laid?”

Oh, fuck. My entire spine goes rigid.

Sophia whips her head toward her. “Elizabeeeeth, what the hell? Are we twelve? You know I don’t drink.”

Elizabeth leans in, voice syrupy and smug. “Game’s the game, honey.”

Sophia’s gaze lifts, and suddenly she’s looking straight at me through the fire.

Blaming me for the question, daring me to react, testing if I flinch.

Sorry, I won't say shit. I'm curious to hear the answer myself, and Elizabeth after tequila is an unpredictable variable I have no intention of provoking.