And if two girls aren't supposed to be piled up on top of each other and exchanging kisses like there's no tomorrow, well, Lucrezia hardly cares. Who is she to talk of what's proper what isn't?

She just lowers her gaze to Cass's neck, drawing patterns about her collarbones. Maybe it's a message or just their names in loopy handwriting over and over again. "But what would you have in that case?" If the best is to be hers, what's left?