“And you still brought it?”
“I’m loyal, not stupid.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “There’s a difference?”
He grins. “Debatable.”
We sit in silence for a beat. The kind of silence that tastes like secrets and stale whiskey. Then he leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice quieter now.
“You were good last night,” he says. “Too good.”
“You sound like that’s a problem.”
“It is,” he says, deadpan. “For everyone watching him lose his mind every time you touch those keys.”
I raise a brow. He shrugs.
“I like watching him unravel,” Rogue says, not even pretending to lie.
I snort, but there’s no humor in it. Just the low hum of panic I’ve been trying to mute since Cillian’s fingers brushed my throat last night. Since he looked at me like he’d crawl through fire just to burn with me.
I shove my chair back and stand, wiping my fingers on the cloth napkin. “Let’s see what Daddy’s little monster picked out, shall we?”
Rogue makes a show of leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head. “Don’t act like you’re not curious.”
I unzip the garment bag, expecting something theatrical—red silk, black lace, maybe another bloodstained metaphor with a price tag. Instead, I find winter. A cream wool turtleneck, soft enough to make me pause. High neck, fitted sleeves, double-stitched cuffs. Under it, dark navy trousers tailored so perfectly I can already feel the fabric skim my thighs.
A long ivory coat hangs behind them, structured shoulders and a subtle belt. Elegant. Timeless. The kind of thing you wear when you need the world to remember you’re a storm in silk gloves. There’s a card tucked in the coat’s inner pocket. Rogue raises a brow as I slide it free.
My dove,
The world may demand velvet cages.
Wear armor instead.
— C
I fold it before Rogue can make another quip. But he just grins, eyes lazy. “He’s getting poetic,” he drawls. “Must be serious.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice not to betray how my stomach flips. Instead, I head toward the bathroom. “If you’re still here when I come out,” I call over my shoulder, “I’ll shove your hangover down your throat.”
Rogue chuckles. “That’s the spirit.”
I get ready fast. Sleek ponytail. A swipe of gloss. A dusting of shimmer across the bridge of my nose because it pisses him off when I look like I belong in the sun. By the time I step out, Rogue’s made himself comfortable with my croissants. He’s got one boot propped up on the coffee table and a cigarette dangling from his mouth while he texts with his thumb and grins like a bastard. I don’t give him time to comment.
“I’m heading out,” I say breezily, slinging the coat over my shoulders like I was born in Burberry.
He blinks. “Cillian said—”
“Cillian’s not here,” I cut in, already by the door. “But you are. So do me a favor and keep flirting with the receptionist for another ten minutes, would you?”
His mouth twitches. “You’re a menace.”
“Guilty,” I call, while he hurries to follow me. The lobby smells like money and false promises. He makes a beeline for the desk like the good little lap dog he is.
Rogue’s attention is now locked on the girl behind the front desk, his voice a lazy drawl, his smirk doing most of the work. Which is lucky for me. Because behind the counter sits a set of valet keys. Black leather fob. Silver tag. The emblem of Cillian’s favorite car glinting like a dare. I move like smoke. Like song. Lift. Pocket. Smile. I’m out the front door before the elevator even dings behind me.
The engine hums beneath me, smooth as silk and twice as sinful. Cillian’s car drives like a threat wrapped in luxury—leather interior, precision handling, a growl that kisses the asphalt with every turn. I shouldn't be smiling, but I am. The bastard has good taste.
