Cinder wheels around to face me in the hall outside our rooms, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with a mix of anger and lingering arousal. “Five times? At the table? Are you insane?” she hisses, her eyes narrowing to violet slits. Her chest heaves with each breath, straining against the confines of her gown in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch. To say she walked funny out of dinner is an understatement. When my mother commented on her strange gait, Cinder simply grumbled, “Back problems.” “Hmm.” I’m somewhat disappointed by her number. “And here I thought I got you to come six
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