Katya doesn’t drop the act. She’s sprawled on my bed, trembling with a fake fever. I smile at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I wring out the small white towel. When I return, I sit beside her and press the cool cloth to her forehead. Her skin is warm, but far from burning. I make sure my expression stays gentle, dutiful.
“Feeling better now?” I ask. Her eyes flutter open.
“I know this is unbecoming,” she whispers, teeth chattering on cue. “I should go to my room before Claire finds me here and makes a fuss again.”
A test. She wants to see where my priorities lie. I smooth the towel against her temple. “You nursed me when I was wounded. Now it’s my turn.”
Her hand closes over mine. “I’m sorry.” That practiced look, eyes wet with false regret, the same one she'd used since I met
