Barely there.
I don't acknowledge it.
The movie lurches toward its climax. The Final Girl defeats the monster with a combination of disco and a fire axe. Phoenix looks like he's going to puke with relief when the survivors stumble into daylight, covered in blood and gore.
"That was sick," Phoenix says weakly.
"Yeah. Sick," I breathe.
I reach for the remote to queue up something else, but my arm feels heavy. The weighted blanket is doing its job too well. Rex's body heat is radiating through the hoodie into my side and his breathing has slowed to a deep and steady rhythm.
I glance up.
His eye is closed.
His head has tipped sideways, resting against the pillow bank. His arm is still draped across my shoulders, his fingers curled loosely against my upper arm. The tension that lives permanently in his jaw has eased for once.
Across the mattress, Raf is out cold, one arm flung across Phoenix's lap, his face buried in the blankets. Guess he missed the grand finale.
Phoenix meets my eyes and gives me a slow, sleepy grin as the credits roll in silence.
My own eyes are heavy. Rex's heartbeat thumps slow and steady against my ear where my head has drifted to his chest.
The TV clicks to its screensaver and soft blue light undulates across the ceiling.
I close my eyes. Despite the fear simmering in my veins after the roses were delivered to the studio, I feel safe.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I sleep without dreaming.
CHAPTER 29
REX
Tonight's performance is in a fucking opera house.
Because of course it is. Carmine hasn't stopped running his mouth about things likebeauty and the beasts—as if there's anything remotely beastly about Raf and Phoenix, unless a golden retriever counts as a beast—andgothic romance.
Every single ticket sold out in under four minutes.
Carmine told me that an hour ago like it was supposed to make me feel better. Like knowing thousands of people are packed into seats specifically to watch my mask get ripped off my face would calm me down.
Knock knock knock.
"It's me," Phoenix says through the dressing room door. "And Raf. And food."
I don't respond.
The door opens anyway.
Phoenix fills the doorframe. Gray henley, black jeans, his blond mane pulled back in a low knot that's already coming undone. His mask—masquerade-style and crow-like, with the outer resin feathers shimmering with gold, silver, and crimson paint to call back to his name—is on the side of his head. He's carrying a tray of snacks and drinks. Behind him, Raf ducks in with a garment bag.
"Forty-five minutes," Phoenix says, setting the shakes on the folding table. "House is full. Carmine's doing a final walkthrough with the lighting crew."
"Stage manager wants to run comms check in twenty," Raf adds, hanging the garment bag on the rack. He unzips it to reveal my stage outfit. Black shirt with a high collar, black pants, black jacket with silver hardware. All of it selected by Carmine's stylist, all of it designed to make the unmasking moment as visually dramatic as possible.
Black body, white skull.
Gothic romance.