My breath caught.
Her eyes were wide, glassy, her lashes damp. "See," she whispered, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her shirt before she grabbed my hand and pressed it against her chest. "They're bigger. Better than Yelena's."
I swallowed hard, my pulse spiking. "Claire, you're drunk," I said, my voice rough as I gently pulled my hand away.
She didn't let go.
"Stay," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please. Don't leave"
I studied Claire's face—her flushed cheeks, the way her breath hitched just a little too perfectly, the way her fingers trembled against my shirt, but not quite enough to sell the act completely.
Claire Starling—FBI agent, survivor, someone who had faced down criminals and betrayal without flinching—drunk? So easily? So completely?
No.
It didn't add up.
Her breathing was uneven, but her eyes—though half-lidded—still flickered with a sharpness that betrayed her.
