The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(78)

Either way, there was only one place Libby currently wanted to be.

She passed through the doors to Grand Central and took the stairs, finding the medeian transports to take her back to London. It was technically too early to return—they’d all been told not to do so until tomorrow—but she had helped build their security, hadn’t she? Twice over. Nothing in the wards sufficiently defended against her entry; for all intents and purposes, it had been more of a polite request than a mandate in any official capacity.

She passed the entry rooms, heading for the reading room, but stopped at the sound of voices; a low wave of sound, meaning hushed tones. She frowned, listening closer for the particularities, and turned swiftly, making her way to the painted room.

Ah, so she had not been the only one to come running back, then.

Parisa and Tristan were on the floor of the painted room, drinking a bottle of something with their backs to the light of the crackling fire. Parisa, unfairly beautiful as always, had her head resting on Tristan’s lap, dark hair spilling over his thighs; the slit of her fashionable slip dress had been drawn up so high the full length of her slender leg was fully visible, nearly to her hip, and likewise, Tristan’s shirt had fallen open, left half-undone to reveal the curve of his chest below the shadow of his clavicle.

A languid smile was curled over his lips, though it was partially distorted by the bottle he drew up to them. He swallowed with a laugh and Parisa reached blindly upwards, the tips of her fingers brushing his mouth.

It wasn’t as if Libby hadn’t already known that Parisa and Tristan were sleeping together. Well—she hadn’t known, exactly, but she wasn’t surprised to find evidence of it now. It wasn’t as if they had many options within the house, and if Nico had already made it plenty clear that Parisa was his first choice, was it any surprise she’d be Tristan’s, as well?

Libby thought for a moment of Tristan’s hand on her pulse and swallowed, shoving it aside.

It wasn’t as if she cared what they did. After all, she had a boyfriend.

A boyfriend she had recently fought with.

One she would rather not see.

But…

But.

A boyfriend nonetheless.

“Well, don’t you look distressed,” remarked Parisa drily. She drew herself upright, taking the bottle from Tristan’s hand. “Perhaps you ought to join us.”

Libby blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t realized they’d seen her.

“I,” she began, and faltered. “This is… this is obviously private, so—”

“Have a drink, Rhodes.” Tristan’s voice was a low rumble, his eyes darkly amused. “You clearly need one.”

“We won’t bite,” added Parisa. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing, of course.”

Libby glanced over her shoulder, still compelled to leave for the reading room.

“I was just going to—”

“Whatever it is, it’ll still be there in the morning, Rhodes. Sit.” Tristan beckoned her with his chin, gesturing to the spot next to him.

Libby hesitated, unsure whether this was her precise choice of company, but the idea of not being alone was… tempting. And Tristan was right, whether he knew it or not. Driving herself mad all over again could be easily ventured anew tomorrow.

She stepped forward and Parisa smiled approvingly, reaching up to hand her the bottle. Libby collapsed on Tristan’s other side, taking a sip.

“Oof,” she said, wincing as it burned. “What is this?”

“Brandy,” said Parisa. “With a few more fermented spices.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning absinthe,” said Tristan. “It’s absinthe.”

“Oh.” Libby swallowed, already a little bowled over by the effect of her single sip.

“Let me guess,” Parisa sighed, reaching over Tristan to take the bottle from Libby. “You don’t drink much?”

“Not particularly,” Libby said.

Parisa drew the bottle back to her lips, which were stained a dark red. The dress was a navy blue, almost black, and Libby instantly wished she had the requisite sophistication to pull it off.

“You can pull it off whenever you’d like,” remarked Parisa, chuckling into the bottle.

Libby felt her cheeks flush. “I just meant I could never wear anything so…” She coughed. “I just don’t do trends very well.”

Parisa leaned forward, handing the bottle back to Libby. The strap of her dress slipped blithely from her shoulder, draping against her arm and floating over what Libby now realized necessitated the absence of a bra.

“I meant it literally,” Parisa said as Libby brought the bottle to her lips, and while Libby choked on her swallow, Tristan laughed.

“You must have gotten a visit from the Forum as well,” he said to Libby, who had only just recovered from an eruption of absinthe-tainted coughs. “What deeply personal revelation did they make about you, then?”

“You tell me,” Libby said, taking another swig. The last thing she wanted to be for this conversation was sober; she already felt juvenile and inept as it was.

“Well, it’s all very dull for us, unfortunately. My father’s a crime boss, same old, same old,” said Tristan, adding to Libby’s look of confusion, “Nasty piece of work. Adequate witch, though.”