Chapter 3 – Run

Lira took another step toward the bed.

Her shoes barely made a sound on the marble, but the soft hush of her stockings whispered against her thighs with every movement. Her braid swung loose across one shoulder, the tip brushing the swell of her breast like a teasing fingertip. The morning sun cut through the curtains and painted a long golden stripe across the floor between us, lighting the curve of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips beneath the crisp black uniform.

She walked right through it like it wasn’t there.

“Young master.”

I held up both hands.

“Lira. Stay. Stop. Heel.”

“I am not a dog, young master.” Her voice was still that low, dreamy murmur, but now it carried a velvet edge that slid under my skin.

“Right now, you are kind of acting like one.”

She tilted her head.

The motion was small. Slow. Deliberate. The way a cat tilts its head right before it decides the glass on the edge of the table belongs on the floor. The loose strands of her braid brushed the delicate line of her throat, and her grey eyes caught the light like polished silver.

I stood up off the bed.

The teacup wobbled on the saucer behind me. My pinky ring was still warm. The lavender smell had thickened into something almost sweet and heavy, clinging to the back of my throat. Every part of this room had decided to gang up on me at once.

“Okay. New rule. No walking toward me.”

She took another step.

Her uniform skirt brushed her knees with a soft rustle, and the way the fabric shifted made it impossible not to notice the smooth line of her legs.

“Lira.”

“Yes, young master.”

“That was a step.”

“Yes, young master.”

“Toward me.”

“Yes, young master.”

She smiled—sweet, wide, and far too knowing—and took one more. The pink in her cheeks deepened, warm and inviting.

I scrambled around the bedpost.

The bed was now between us. A whole, enormous, four-poster bed with red velvet drapes. Solid wood. Reinforced frame. Probably handled centuries of bad decisions. Hopefully, it could handle one more.

Lira looked at the bed.

Then at me.

Then at the bed.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t done anything, young master.”

“You are thinking about doing something.”

“Thinking is allowed, young master.”

She walked, very slowly, around the left side of the bed, hips swaying in that unhurried, hypnotic rhythm that made the starched apron cling just a little tighter to her curves.

I walked, very quickly, around the right.

We made one full lap.

Her grey eyes tracked me the whole time. Bright. Patient. Hungry. Her cheeks still wore that soft, glowing pink. Her braid had loosened a little at the bottom, and a few brown strands clung to the warm skin of her neck, damp with the slightest sheen of excitement.

She did not look like a maid anymore.

She looked like a girl who had been given exactly one hour to misbehave in her entire life and was burning every second of it, savoring the slow chase like it was the only thing that had ever made her feel alive.

“Young master.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Whatever it is. No.”

“Could you maybe…”

“No.”

“Just one little…”

“Lira.”

“…command, young master.” The word command left her lips like a caress, low and breathy.

I tripped on the rug.

It was not a small rug. It was the sprawling, intricate kind that probably cost more than my old apartment. My foot caught the edge. My back hit the bedpost. My hair fell into my eyes.

She froze mid-step.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

For one second, I thought she was about to apologize. Old Lira, breaking through. The trembling girl from ten minutes ago.

Then her shoulders started shaking.

She was laughing.

Quietly. Behind her hands. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and sparkling. Her braid bounced gently against her chest. She laughed like a person who had just watched a cat fall off a couch and could not, for the life of her, contain the soft, delighted sound bubbling up from her throat.

“Are you laughing at me right now?”

“No, young master.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I would never, young master.”

“You are wheezing.”

She bit her lip hard—plump and flushed—her shoulders shook one more time. Then, because the universe enjoyed bullying me specifically, she straightened up and started walking toward me again, each step slow and deliberate, the hem of her skirt brushing her thighs.

I bolted for the wardrobe.

I do not know why. There was no plan. The wardrobe was simply the next large object in my line of sight. I put my hand on it. I thought about climbing inside. I thought about Narnia. I thought about how stupid that sounded out loud.

Lira followed.

She did not run.

She strolled.

That was somehow worse.

“Young master, you are very fast.”

“Yes.”

“For someone almost dead this morning.”

“Adrenaline is a powerful thing, Lira.”

“Mm.” The sound was soft, almost a purr.

She stopped two steps away from me. Two steps. I could count the small freckles on her nose. I could see the careful little stitches at the edge of her white collar, the way the fabric rose and fell with her quickened breathing. I could smell whatever soap she used—something clean, something simple, something that only made the heat rolling off her skin more noticeable.

She tilted her chin up, exposing the soft line of her throat.

“One word, young master.”

“No.”

“Just one.”

“Lira, I do not even know what I did.”

She blinked.

For half a second, the dreamy haze in her eyes cracked. Real Lira flickered through. Confused. A little embarrassed. The grey came back into focus.

Then it slid right back under.

“Neither do I, young master.”

That was, somehow, the most terrifying thing she had said all morning.

I took a slow, careful breath.

The pinky ring sat heavy on my hand. The faint warmth was still there, pulsing like a secret heartbeat against my skin. I could feel it like a low note under everything. The same low note that had snuck into my voice when I told her to calm down.

If accident-hypnosis got me into this, on-purpose-hypnosis was probably the only way out.

I did not love the plan.

But she was, very slowly, reaching for my sleeve, fingers trembling with anticipation.

“Lira.”

“Yes, young master.”

I focused.

I pictured my voice as a long thread. I pictured pulling on it. I pictured the ring on my finger, warm and humming, like a tuning fork at the end of that thread. I pictured the air in the room going quiet.

I dropped my voice.

“Lira. Wake up.”

Two words.

The warmth bloomed again behind my eyes. Brighter this time. The lavender smell sharpened, then thinned, then disappeared entirely. The sunlight stripe on the floor seemed to dim by half. The chandelier above us swayed once, very gently, like a held breath finally let out.

Lira’s hand stopped halfway to my sleeve.

Her grey eyes cleared.

The pink drained out of her cheeks, only to rush back in twice as deep, flooding her face and throat with a devastating flush. The dreamy slack melted off her face. Her mouth dropped open by a tiny, devastated inch, lips still parted and glistening.

She looked at her own outstretched hand.

Then at me.

Then, on the rug, she had just chased me around.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes.”

“Young master.”

“Yes.”

“I.”

“Mm.”

“I am going to die.”

“You are not going to die, Lira.”

Her face went the exact color of the bed curtains. A red so deep it was practically a felony. Her hands flew up to cover her face. Then her ears. Then her face again, because she ran out of skin to cover. Her whole body trembled with pure, mortified heat.

“I am going to die, young master.”

“You are really not.”

“Forgive me, young master.”

“Lira. It is fine.”

“It is not fine, young master.”

“Lira.”

“I cannot believe I.”

“Lira, you do not have to—”

She turned around.

She bowed—quick, graceful, the motion pulling the uniform tight across her back and hips for one lingering second.

Then, with the same careful grace she had used to pour tea five minutes earlier, she sprinted out of the room.

Actually sprinted.

Her shoes slapped down the hallway. Something clattered. A door slammed. Another, deeper voice somewhere on a lower floor said something sharp. Her footsteps kept going.

The bedroom door, very slowly, drifted shut behind her.

I stood next to the wardrobe with my hand still on it.

The teacup on the side table was, somehow, still upright. The tray on the floor had stopped its slow, lazy roll. The chandelier had gone perfectly still.

My heart was doing things that hearts should probably not do.

I lifted my hand and looked at the silver pinky ring. The black stone in the center caught the morning light and threw it back in a thin, sharp line.

Hypnosis.

The lame power. The forgettable trick. The skill no one in any forum had ever taken seriously.

I was starting to think the forum was wrong.

I sat down, very slowly, on the edge of the bed.

Outside, somewhere far below, Lira’s footsteps finally stopped.