She just continues cutting thick slices of cake and placing them on the plates around the island. “You were just a kid, Bellamy. You did what you had to. And look at you now. Still standing.”
I don’t know what to do with her kindness. Or her insight. Or the weight she speaks with. Like she sees more than she’s supposed to.
Coco loads three plates onto one of the two serving trays and nods toward the door. “Come on, honey. Let’s not keep the boys waiting. I’ll have Bishop grab the other tray.”
Her hand slides across my back—warm, familiar, unsettlingly maternal—as she guides me toward the door. A side-hug, light but proprietary, like she’s claiming me for just a moment.
The patio lights spill across the tile as we step outside.
Chairs shift and conversations stall. Four Calloway heads turn in near unison.
It’s not hostile, but I wouldn’t call it welcoming either. It’s somewhere in the middle, more possession than anything.
Each of them looks at me in their own way, like they’re trying to place a memory or a version of me they can’t quite reconcile with the one standing here holding dessert.
Gage breaks first, the bright edge that softens him around the eyes.
Cruz’s eyes remain sharp on me, even as his mouth curves into a smirk.
Rafe leans back, arm across the back of my chair and unguarded curiosity written in the curve of his lips.
Bishop holds my gaze, lingering half a second too long.
I pretend not to notice any of it and set the tray down in the middle of the table. I smooth my palms against my dress, grounding myself in the fabric.
Coco claps her hands, breaking the moment. “I made death by chocolate cake tonight, so eat up, boys.”
Someone groans, and someone else huffs a low laugh, and whatever spell loosens.
But the awareness doesn’t fade. It hums beneath my skin—quiet, persistent, tugging in too many directions at once. Old history brushing against new.
Bellamy Hale, carrying dessert into the lion’s den.
Not for the first time, I wonder if Lola was right and coming here was a terrible idea. But I’m in it now.
I take my seat, even though it means Rafe’s knee is a living heat source against mine again and Gage’s attention flicks to me every time I so much as pick up my fork. The first bite of cake is a memory bomb—dark chocolate and coffee and the sharp tang of berry layered between, just like Coco used to make when she was trying to keep the boys from killing each other.
I dig into a second bite before realizing I’ve stopped tasting it, my mind ricocheting off every surface in the backyard. I’m hyperaware of them.
I tell myself I can get through dessert, thank Coco, and leave without my hands shaking. Just a simple plan, as easy as breathing. But something in my chest betrays me—a little flutter, quick and bright, thin as spun sugar. I feel it, traitorous and sharp, right beneath my breastbone.
And fuck me, because I don't hate it.
I should. Ishouldwant to peel myself away from this, from the heat pouring through my veins and the way my blood pounds in my ears in warning.
But I don’t—I can't.
Not yet.
So I let it happen. I let myself melt into the sensation, the wrongness of it, the way it carves me open and leaves me desperate for another taste.
And that might be the worst part.
11
BELLAMY
Lola crunchesinto a cheese puff like she’s trying to commit a noise violation inside the SUV.
