And Luc Batiste himself.
Warriors. Kings. Predators in suits.
Men whose names alone can stall international markets and topple small governments.
But to me?
Right now?
They’re just men.
Men who are failing—spectacularly—to see the opportunity standing directly in front of them.
Cecilia.
And the fact that they don’t understand what she is?
What she could be?
What she already is?
It twists something in my gut. Something protective. Something possessive. Something feral.
So I let them see it.
All the revulsion.
All the disdain.
Every ounce of contempt I feel for the way they’re underestimating the woman who could outthink any of us in her sleep.
“That’s the wrong fucking question,” I say, letting a slow smile curl at my mouth.
A smile that has nothing warm in it. Nothing soft. Just teeth.
“The right one would be—when’s the wedding?”
Silence detonates across the table.
Even Nico blinks, his expression stalled between disbelief and amusement.
Angel actually snorts—like a man who can’t tell if he just heard a joke or if he’s about to witness the start of a dynasty war.
Luc Batiste’s face goes blank. Empty. The kind of empty that means he’s calculating whether this ends in blood or a contract.
But me?
I’ve never been more fucking certain of anything in my life.
Did I plan to say it?
No.
Absolutely not.
But the words came out of me like a truth that had been trying to claw free for a lifetime.
And now that it’s out?
