"Where—"
"Just come."
She leads me away from the window, away from the ghost of White Ember, to the couch where we've been working all day. She guides me down on the couch and straddles her deliciously thick thighs across my lap, facing me.
“Talk to me," she says. "Not about tomorrow. Not about strategy. Just talk."
"About what?" I lay my hands carefully on her hips.
"Anything. Everything. I want to know who you are when you’re not being a weapon or a protector or a Delano." She settles herself, lying on my chest like she belongs there. "Tell me some real shit. Something you've never told anyone."
It's a dangerous request. The kind that opens doors I've kept locked for good reasons. But sitting here with Peyton warm against me, her faith in me unshakeable and probably undeserved, I find myself answering anyway.
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a teacher," I say quietly. "Before I truly understood who my family was in this town, I wanted to teach history. Help kids understand that the world they inherited wasn't inevitable. That people made choices that led here, and different choices could lead somewhere else."
Peyton's quiet for a moment. "What changed?"
"My father supported my dream and let me go to college. I honestly believe he didn’t want this life for me, Talia, or Lucas. But then my father unexpectedly died. I was nineteen, halfway through college in Syracuse, and Silas took my father’s place as the heir apparent to the family business. I remember it like yesterday. He called and said the family needed me. That teaching was a luxury we couldn't afford." I stare at the ceiling. "So I came home like a good son. I learned the business, and I learned how to fight because that's what Delanos do. And I told myself it was temporary. That I'd go back eventually."
"But you didn't."
"No, because somewhere along the way, I stopped being the person who wanted to teach kids about history and became the person making it. The violent kind. The kind that gets reenacted on crime shows instead of textbooks."
Her head lies on my shoulder, and her arms circle my waist. "You could still teach one day.”
"No one wants to hire a teacher who's killed people."
"Maybe not. But they might want one who understands that history isn't clean. That progress requires people willing to fight for it. That sometimes doing the right thing means getting your hands bloody."
My hands settle on her ass. "That's a dark philosophy for a senator's daughter."
"I've spent my whole life in rooms with men who keep their hands clean by paying others to do their dirty work. At least you own what you are."
"And what am I?"
"Dangerous. Damaged. Determined to save people who don't even know they need saving." She smiles. "Also kind of heroic, but don't let it go to your head."
"Heroic." I almost laugh. "That's not the word most people use."
"Most people don't know you like I do."
"You've known me three days.”
"Longest three days of my life." She's teasing now, but there's truth underneath. "And in those three days, you've protected me, taught me, trusted me, and kissed me in a hallway like the world was ending. That's more honesty than I've gotten from people I've known for years."
"Peyton, tomorrow night is going to be dangerous. Kingsley didn't invite you to make peace. He invited you to assert dominance. To remind everyone in that room that he controls Wintervale."
"I understand that.”
"And Silas will be there. My family. People who want to use you or kill you or both." My hand tightens on hers. "If something goes wrong, if you're in danger, I need you to promise me you'll run. Not fight. Just run."
“Why would I run? You literally just taught me how to fight,” she grins.
We both laugh.
Then she studies my face for a long moment. “I know we’re walking into a lion’s den, but I’m not worried. Your uncle asked you to protect me for a reason.”
“Yeah, for his own fucked up reasons.”
