I taste her. And fuck, I’m aching.
I release her finger and watch as her eyes flutter closed, her resolve completely shattering.
“Right,” I murmur, my voice a low, rumbling purr.
“Right,” she breathes back.
My phone suddenly buzzes, the sound loud in the quiet boardroom as it vibrates against the table. I ignore it, but then itvibrates again. And again.
The spell is broken. With a sigh of annoyance, I pull back and glance at the screen. Three text messages, all from Rett.
Head home NOW.
Static’s back. Bad.
Need Zoe close.
The heat drains away.
“What is it?” she asks, her own face paling at my expression.
“It’s the pack,” I say, and my own voice sounds hollow. I run a hand through my curls. “We, uh, we need to head back.”
“Is everything okay?” she asks, her brow furrowed with concern. “Is it the static?”
I look at her, at her wide, worried eyes, at the way her hand is still half-raised as if to touch my lips again, and the lie I’m supposed to tell sticks in my throat. I should say yes. I should make it about the static. That’s the deal. Her presence for our relief. Her safety for our sanity. A clean, simple transaction.
But it’s not simple anymore. It’s not clean. The thought of taking her back to the penthouse not because Iwanther, but because my brothersneedher as some kind of... biological cure... it makes me feel sick.
“Yeah,” I finally manage to say, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “They, uh... they need you.”
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t hesitate. She just gives a small, determined nod that makes something in my chest ache. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”
The elevator ride down is silent. I place my hand at the small of her back to guide her, the gesture feeling both instinctive and profoundly dishonest.
“It’ll be okay,” she says quietly as we walk through the empty lobby. “We’ll figure it out.”
We. Notyou.We.
And despite the sour taste in my mouth, despite the lie that is sitting like a stone in my gut, I can’t help the small, fierce flare of hope that ignites in my chest at that single word.
Maybe this arrangement isn’t what she thinks it is.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to wish it wasn’t an arrangement at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Zoe
The ride back to the penthouse is a blur of speed and suffocating silence.
I sit rigid in the passenger seat of Tristan’s Aston Martin, my hands clenched in my lap, watching his profile as he drives. The playful, teasing man I’ve come to know is gone. In his place is someone I barely recognize. Jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road with lethal focus, knuckles tight around the steering wheel. He hasn’t spoken a single word since we left the office, the usual stream of jokes and flirtation dried up completely.
The single word from Rett’s text sits between us like a ticking bomb:
Bad.
Just one word, but it was enough. Enough to make the rich, warm undertones of Tristan's skin go dull andashen. Enough to make him grab my hand and practically drag me from theboardroom. Enough to make my own heart seize with a fear I don't want to examine too closely.
