Vivienne and André were still hugging like the sweet couple they were. That is if sweet meant one of them secretly wanted to snap the other's neck and the other was deciding between stabbing or setting something on fire. But yes—very sweet couple. The kind that makes people sigh and say, "Ah, love," without knowing the woman was mentally sharpening knives and the man was thinking of what she'd look like begging.
Vivienne pressed her head to his chest, pretending to listen to his heartbeat, pretending to be soft, calm, and oh so in love. Her hair brushed against his shirt, and she felt his hand resting on the small of her back like she was something precious. Precious, my ass, she thought. If only he knew she was thinking about vaults and horses and freedom, not about his stupid perfect chest or his stupid perfect voice.
