Loves My Sister, Married To Me

Charlie pushed through the canvas flap and locked the brass latch behind her. She slid down the door until she sat on the Persian rug, knees drawn up, forehead pressed against her wrists. The tent smelled of cedar and the ghost of Claudius's cologne. Above her, the aurora projector hummed. He'd insisted on bringing it. Set it on the nightstand himself, angled just so, claiming he wanted her to sleep under the stars even inside. She'd thought it romantic. Now she stared at the black cylinder. Her legs carried her to the nightstand before she decided to move. She picked up the projector. Heavy. Sleek. The laser aperture stared back like a blind eye. Below it, almost invisible, a tiny circle of non-reflective black. Charlie's breath stopped. She fumbled for her makeup bag. Found the tweezers. Instead of prying, her fingers searched the smooth surface, her instincts screaming. She felt it-a nearly imperceptible seam. She pressed the tip of the tweezers into a tiny, recessed release button, designed to be overlooked. The side panel didn't crack; it clicked open on a silent hinge. A micro camera stared back at her, no bigger than a fingernail. A blue LED blinked slow and steady. Wireless transmitter attached. Recording everything. Every moment. Every intimacy. Last night. The bed behind her. She ran for the bathroom. Cold water splashed her face, again and again, until her hands stopped shaking. She gripped the marble sink and met her own eyes in the mirror. Wide. Terrified. Pregnant, maybe. Watched, definitely. Targeted, absolutely. Footsteps outside. His footsteps. She knew the rhythm. Heavy, confident, the stride of a man who owned the ground he walked on. Charlie grabbed a towel. Dried her face. Ran. She reached the nightstand as the tent flap rustled. She snapped the projector casing shut. It clicked back into place with seamless precision, leaving no trace it had ever been opened. The blue LED winked out, hidden again. She dove into bed and pulled the covers to her chin. The latch turned. Claudius stepped through, tall and broad, bringing the night chill with him. He paused at the entrance, looking at her. She kept her breathing slow. Even. Eyes closed. The mattress dipped. He sat on the edge, close enough that she felt his heat through the silk sheets. His fingers touched her cheek, rough and warm. She wanted to recoil. Her body wanted to scream. She let him touch her. "Charlie," he murmured. The voice that had whispered love. That had planned her destruction with the same tongue. She fluttered her eyelids open. "Mmm?" "You're cold." His thumb traced her jaw. "And you're shaking." She forced a sleepy smile. "The wind. Through the canvas." His eyes searched hers. Blue and endless and completely unreadable. "I missed you." He leaned down. Bourbon on his breath. His lips pressed her forehead, then her mouth, soft and claiming. Charlie let him kiss her. Let him pull her against his chest where his heart beat strong and steady and false. She buried her face in his neck so he couldn't see her eyes. His hand slid down her side. Paused on her stomach. "You're not feeling well?" he asked, voice gentle as poisoned honey. The clinic. The words from the oak tree replayed in her skull. "A little dizzy," she whispered. "Just need sleep." "Of course." He tucked her in, kissed her temple, and reached for his phone on the nightstand. Charlie watched him through lowered lashes. The projector sat inches from his hand. He didn't look at it. Didn't touch it. Just scrolled through emails with the concentration of a man who had nothing to hide. She closed her eyes and planned how to steal the footage.