I wake up to morning light filtering through a set of cheap blackout curtains. It’s weak, gray, the kind of winter dawn that promises nothing good. Blake's still asleep, which surprises me. His breathing is deep and even, one arm draped across my waist like even unconscious, he's protecting me.
I study his chiseled face in the pale light. He looks younger like this. The hard edges softened. There's a scar through his left eyebrow I hadn't noticed before. Another along his jaw. A roadmap of damage written on skin that's seen too much, survived too much. He's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful, compelling, terrifying, impossible to look away from.
Last night was... I don't have words for what last night was.
Incredible. Inevitable. The kind of intimacy that changes you at a cellular level.
I don't regret it, but I can’t pretend that it didn’t end awkwardly either. The connection between us was fucking hot, and then suddenly it became ice cold, like he built an invisible wall between us the moment he came.
If I hadn’t had years of therapy, the sudden switch could have really made me feel like shit. But since I’m evolved and whatnot, I know that the distance he created is his problem, not mine. Maybe he can’t multitask–protect me and fuck me too. Not everyone is blessed with that skillset.
Okay, maybe I feel a little shitty about it.
Blake's eyes open, and they’re instantly alert, no grogginess, the shift from sleep to readiness so fast it's almost unsettling. He catches me staring at him, so I greet him first.
"Morning," I whisper.
"Morning." His voice is rough, warm. His hand splays across my lower back, pulls me closer. "You good?”
“Yep.”
"No regrets?"
He could be referring to last night or what we’re about to do today, but regardless, my answer is still the same. “Not even one."
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then his phone buzzes and reality crashes back in. There’s a lot to do in very little time. I don’t have time to worry about juvenile things like: Does he really like me or not?
He reaches for it, checks the screen, and his expression hardens. “It’s Talia. The results are in."
My heart hammers. "Already? I thought it would take longer.”
"Dr. Richardson expedited it.” He hands me the phone. “He’ll expect an extra stack for that.”
I read the messages, and my stomach knots up.
Talia: DNA confirmed. 99.7% certainty—Peyton is a direct maternal descendant of Edmund Kingsley through the Catherine Kingsley-Morrison line. Documentation is complete and legally defensible. I can file the paperwork after you give me the thumbs up. Blake, she's legitimate! Which means tonight it’s on like hot-buttered popcorn.
Talia: Also—Silas knows about the results. Richardson swears it wasn’t him who told. He's already calling an emergency family meeting this afternoon. You need to get ahead of this.
Ugh.
Talia: One more thing. The FS gals want a meeting with Peyton. Before the gala. They're claiming neutrality, but we both know that's bullshit. Your call.
I hand the phone back, my hands shaking despite my best efforts to stay calm.
"I'm a Kingsley," I say. The words feel foreign in my mouth. "Officially."
“Congratulations,” he deadpans.
"Which means tonight, Edmund can't dismiss me or claim I'm an imposter or a fraud. I have legal standing."
“But it also means he'll have to acknowledge you, in front of everyone, at his gala." Blake sits up, runs a hand through his hair. "He's either going to offer you a deal or make an example of you. We need to be ready for both.”
"What kind of deal?"
"The kind where you sign over your proxy votes in exchange for a trust fund and a promise not to dig into your mother's death." His jaw tightens. "Money for silence. Power for compliance."
"And if I refuse?"
