He grinned, dropping onto the sofa beside me, cheeks flushed from liquor and triumph.
We clinked glasses.
The sharp edges of the negotiation room were dulled into something survivable.
Atticus held his liquor well. I… did not. My phone buzzed from across the room.
I ignored it again.
He watched my stillness. “Avoiding it?”
“Yes.”
“Reasonable.” He poured more wine into my glass without asking. “After today, I’d avoid contact with most of the living, too.”
Another buzz.
I stared straight ahead.
Atticus didn’t press. That was the thing about him, he pushed everywhereexceptthe places that mattered. He knew when I needed distraction instead of interrogation.
The chef entered, setting down a plate piled with warm scones, thick cream, and bright red jam.
“Midnight snack,” he said with a respectful bow, as if scones at 12:38 a.m. were completely normal.
Atticus raised a brow.
“I’m craving it.”
He smirked. “That’s hardly new.”
I tore a scone open, ignoring every dynasty rule about dignified eating.
Atticus took one for himself. “Dad always says midnight carbs are a sign of emotional turmoil.”
“Your father eats three pastries before bed.”
“Exactly.” He held up his scone like a toast. “To turmoil.”
I laughed again, softer this time.
It was strangely easy with him.
Comforting even.
Atticus leaned back, stretching his legs out. “So tell me, Elizabeth, how many drinks before you admit that room scared you?”
I stiffened. The answer was written all over me.
The Crows had shaken something loose today. Something that made my breath hitch every time I replayed Vince’s stare in my mind.
My phone buzzed again from across the room. I still didn’t move.
By the time the fire settled, Atticus finally stopped joking. His expression shifted, but undeniably serious.
He sat his empty glass aside. “Maddy, Crows are intimidating. Don’t let today get into your head.” He nudged my knee with his. “You did great. Truly. Your father was proud. And so was I.”
“They’re… terrifying.”
