They walked again, slower this time. Elara's mind spun with the heady thought that Amara was thinking about forever, too. Maybe it wasn't a question of if, but when.
The world shrank to the sound of their footsteps and the lazy glimmer of Paris at night. Amara didn't let go of her hand, not once, and Elara realized she didn't want her to not tonight, maybe not ever.
They wound their way through the narrow, cobbled streets, drawn by some invisible thread back to Elara's temporary home: the Hôtel du Palais Royal, a historic building with ivy-wrapped balconies and windows like secrets. The lobby glowed with soft golden light, the marble floors gleaming, a place so elegant that even the night porter gave them a discreet nod rather than the open-mouthed stare Amara sometimes drew in public.
Elara shot her a sly look as the elevator doors closed. "You know, I think the concierge is starting to suspect I'm harboring a very expensive criminal."
