Her. My chest constricts. That word burns in my ears. That has to mean me, right? Panic flares, sending electricity under my ribs. I shouldn’t eavesdrop. I know better than to care. But why would they ever want to move me?
The words curl around my thoughts, a silent alarm I can’t decode.
I can’t focus on this, not when I still need to see Elijah.
I convince my feet to keep moving, and after five minutes of walking I reach his room.
I knock twice, but nothing happens, so I throw my head back, flooded with disappointment.
Maybe he didn’t hear me?
I push open the door, but the bed is made, undisturbed. My small frown deepens. He must be working another job with Enzo.
Regardless of my disappointment, I force my feet to turn and guide me back to where it’s safest. He’s protecting our family. I know I should be grateful, but that’s not the part of him I want tonight. I wanted him. Just him. I wanted to tell him, finally, what I’ve been holding in my chest, the pull I can’t name out loud.
The walk back feels endless. Ten minutes of my pulse hammering in my ears, anticipation swelling, mixing withfrustration. I try to distract myself, imagining the words I’ll finally say to him, imagining how his face will change when he hears them. Will he smile? Pause? Tap his fingers against his leg, consumed with nerves? The thought makes my chest flutter.
By the time I reach the familiar scent of my wing, my pulse has settled into a tense rhythm.
Just tell him in the morning. It’s not like you won’t see him again.I remind myself I’ll have another chance, again and again, tucking my hair behind my ear, before finding the shadow of Leo outside my door.
Fuck, I forgot the water.
I let myself descend the curved gold staircase toward the kitchen, but each step is weighed down by something I can’t name.
Anticipation tilts into dread, curling around my ribs. I hear—no, that can’t be right.
And then I turn the corner.
The kitchen lights blaze, bright and unflinching against chrome appliances and marble counters. And there—his hands on her hips, her back arched, her laugh dripping saccharine as he whispers into her ear—is Elijah.
Some woman’s sequined red dress rides high around her thighs, glitter catching the sterile light. Her stilettos dangle helplessly from one foot. Her perfume—cloying, chemical flowers—suffocates the air. She clings to him, lacquered nails scratching half-moons into his skin.
And Elijah—
Elijah is kissing her like she’s the last glass of water in a desert. Kissing her like he kissed me. His shirt is half shoved up his torso, revealing muscle I know better than I want to admit. His hands grip her hips, fingers digging into that cheap fabric as if he’s trying to anchor himself.
Moans escape both their lips as he drives into the fake blonde on my kitchen countertop.
My chest collapses. My blood stops in its veins. My stomach plummets. My ribs close around a heart suddenly too fragile to beat.
The sound that leaves me is raw, unplanned, and unforgiving.
A knife through the quiet.
“What the fuck?”
Both their heads snap toward me.
She jerks around first—hair mussed, lipstick smeared into a garish red slash. Her eyes sweep me, triumphant and venom-sweet.
And then Elijah looks at me. Wide-eyed. Caught. Guilty.
His hands drop from her body as if they’ve been doused in acid.
Humiliation hits hotter than rage. My skin prickles, my face burns, but I keep my composure steady. “Are you serious?”
Neither of them answers fast enough.
