“Briar?” I tensed. “Poet?” “In my chambers, he kissed me. And I kissed him back.” The confession leached the oxygen from my lungs. He’d spoken tentatively, yet it failed to dull the words. Their sharpness lanced through my chest. My best friend had attempted to enamor Poet. And Poet had let him try. Not that I hadn’t trespassed on Eliot’s desires first or that Poet was mine to begin with. He never had been. “Oh,” was all that came out, my voice too fragmented to say more.
