The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 462

Chapter 462: 462 | Four Items Requiring Your Signature [CASTLE BONUS]

Not casual knocks. Firm and sharp and spaced with the rhythmic precision of someone who knocked exactly this way every single time because inconsistency in any behavior was a sign of insufficient preparation.

Camille’s hand lifted from my stomach. Felicity’s palm stayed on my chest for one additional second, a claiming gesture that communicated she was not finished and the interruption was personal, before she withdrew.

I grabbed my shirt from the bed and pulled it over my head.

"Belmont." The voice through the door was cold and modulated and carrying the specific combination of impatience and architectural certainty that belonged to exactly one person in the building. "I know you’re awake. Your light has been on since I passed the hallway at twenty-one forty-seven and the sound profile suggests multiple occupants."

Petra Lang.

I opened the door.

Petra stood in the hallway wearing a cream silk pajama set that cost more than my monthly food budget. The material caught the light with the specific sheen of something purchased at a store I would never walk into without an appointment. Her geometric black waves fell precisely to her shoulders in the way hair falls when it has been professionally cut and maintained on a schedule that most people don’t keep for dentist visits. Her emerald eyes swept past me and into the room behind me with the speed of someone who processed visual information the way Percy processed exit routes, cataloging the entire scene before her expression had time to register what she was cataloging.

Her leather planner was tucked under her left arm, pressed against the curve of her chest with the posture of a woman carrying state documents rather than homework. The planner had metal corners and an embossed monogram that I could see from here. Everything Petra owned looked like it had been selected by a committee tasked with maximizing the impression of competence per square inch.

Her eyes landed on Felicity first. Felicity sat cross-legged on the bed in pink booty shorts and a cropped white tank that had ridden up enough to show the curve of her stomach. Her blonde hair was loose over one shoulder. Her expression was the pleasant warmth of someone who had been interrupted mid-conversation and was waiting to see if the interruption had a point.

Petra’s gaze moved to Camille next. Camille’s navy tank top had abandoned any pretense of modesty approximately three hours ago when she decided she was comfortable enough here to stop performing it. She was leaning back on her hands. Her posture communicated she was exactly as unbothered by the scrutiny as she looked.

Then Petra’s eyes tracked to the scattered cards across the comforter, the glasses on the nightstand with condensation rings underneath them, the mostly-empty bottle of sake sitting next to my pillow like evidence in a file someone was going to open later.

Then back to me.

"Your shirt is inside out," Petra said.

I looked down. She was right. The Halloran crest tag stuck out from the collar at an angle that told the exact story I was hoping it wouldn’t.

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