Reina and Diantha both wear sequined dresses that fit them like gloves. Diantha’s is the dark green of ivy and Reina’s is the pale blue of morning sky. I’m pretty sure they turn every head as they walk by. No, we do. Aristelle came in and tossed a little silk black dress at me while we were getting ready. Plus, she lent me some high black boots that were loose enough to strap my knives into. I think she’s starting to like me.

Still, it’s hard not to feel like a third wheel when you’re hanging out with the hottest couple alive.

Diantha and Reina slow, like they noticed me falling behind them. They unlink their arms and drop back to either side of me, then slide their arms through both of mine instead. My first instinct is to pull away, to keep walking separately, but they seem to sense that in me and both give me an extra little squeeze.

And I stay. Because it feels right. It feels like this could be our Friday nights for years to come. I’m not a third wheel. I’m the one who moderates their debates on who’s the hottest Lara Croft: Angelina Jolie or Alicia Vikander—I always side with Reina and pick Angelina because I can play neutral for only so long. I feel like I’m a part of something with them. Something special.

It scares me. I’m letting myself build a whole life, and futures can be ripped away so easily. This one’s even more precarious—I still have to win. But in some ways, that makes it feel more secure. They want me. Whether or not I get to stay is in my hands. Nobody can take away something that I win.

Except Lucius. I think of Edgar’s tired face as he got dragged off, but that’s avoidable as long as we play by the rules.

We come to a stop outside of a place called Blueroom, with a large, ominous black door and windows trimmed in turquoise. It’s an odd combo, but it fits my mood. Reina drops my arm and pulls the door open with a little bow. “Ladies,” she says, waving us forward.

We step inside and the hostess greets us. “At the bar or at a table?” But her eyes narrow on me a little bit, like she knows the bar isn’t an option.

“Table, please,” Diantha says.

The hostess leads us to a red faux-leather booth tucked into a corner that’s away from the glare of the windows. Soon, we’re stuffing our faces with the best crab-spinach-artichoke dip I’ve ever had. Okay, it’s the only crab dip I’ve ever had, but I’d bet money on it being unbeatable. It takes us only ten minutes to polish off the whole thing.