“But I was the one who ruined it in the first place.” His expression remains even, almost calm, yet his fingers tighten into a fist. “They were happy, before they had me. Sometimes,” he says, very quiet, “I think I ruin everything I touch.”

Yes, you do, the vindictive voice in my head whispers, but it’s more distant than ever, as if sounding from a thousand miles away. I grab his hand, unfurling his fist, and tug it toward me, letting it rest on my exposed knee, right where the hem of my silk nightgown ends. His fingertips are so warm that the heat spreads upward through me, curling inside my ribs. My skin itches pleasantly with the sensation, and I have to steady myself for a moment before speaking. “See?” I say, soft. “You haven’t ruined me.”

He stares down at the place where his hand burns against my leg like he’s still deep in a dream, then up at me. “Haven’t I?” he whispers.

Part of me wants to say that he has. That my life was ruined once by him when I was expelled from my old school, and again, by myself, when I gave up modeling. It’s the same part of me that was convinced my life was already over, destroyed beyond repair. That while everyone else was moving on, I was moving in circles. But now, alone in this room with him, the night breeze sighing against the windows, the sweet song of crickets filling the air, the press of his palm like a salve, nothing feels entirely ruined. How could it be, if I ended up here?

“Don’t overestimate yourself, Cyrus,” I tell him with a faint smile, as if everything inside me hasn’t reoriented itself to his touch. His thumb shifts, just slightly, probably by accident, and it sends a shock of electricity coursing through my veins. I lick my lips. My mouth is dry, my throat tight with all the things I want, and suddenly I’m scared that I’ve gone too far with this little revenge plan of mine, that everything’s slipping out of my control. I’d wanted his heart, but I hadn’t wanted to give away mine.

I stand up. Turn around. “I should head back to my room—”

“Wait,” he says, a hitch in his voice. “Don’t go.”

I whirl back toward him in surprise.

“You … You might wake people up if you leave now,” he says. “You can keep sleeping on the other bed until early morning and slip out before the group starts heading down for breakfast. Oliver won’t be back until then anyway.”

“Is that the real reason?” I ask him.

He goes still, alarm flashing in and out of his eyes. “What?”

“Are you really scared of waking people up? Or are you just scared of sleeping alone after a nightmare?”

“Maybe,” he says, more easily than I would’ve expected.