The key card scraped against the lock twice more before the door finally opened. I stepped inside, letting it slam with deliberate heaviness behind me, making sure to stumble into the suite just enough to sell the performance, sure I was being watched. The whiskey scent clung to my clothes—authentic enough, though the alcohol itself had burned through my system hours ago. Dragon metabolism had its advantages, even if I couldn't access the rest of my heritage.
Father had been generous with the drinks tonight, more so than usual. That should have been my first warning. Edward Armstrong-Wells never did anything without calculation, and his sudden appearance at the celebration reeked of orchestration I had yet to discover. The suite was dim, city lights casting shadows across the floor. I loosened my tie and shrugged out of my jacket, letting it fall where it may. Then I saw the clothes—expensive fabric pooled in an enticing trail leading to the bedroom. My stomach clenched with recognition and rage.
Of course.Of fucking course.
I moved toward the bedroom, each step measured and devoid of my previously affected unsteadiness. The figure in my bed was exactly who I expected—Phoenix, artfully arranged against the pillows like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. In the low light, he looked even more fragile than he had downstairs, all sharp angles and hollow cheeks. Beautiful. Desperate. And clearly working for my father. The father who clearly wanted something else to hold over me.
The betrayal cut deeper than it should have. I'd met him for all of ten minutes, but something about his responses had felt genuine. The way he'd understood about family expectations, the spark of real connection when we talked. I'd actually believed, for a moment, that someone might see past the performance to whatever was left of me underneath.
Foolish.
Father had trained me better than that. It had been a set-up from the beginning.
Phoenix stirred as I entered, managing a perfect sleepy smile that was just vulnerable enough to be disarming. "Cole? I wasn't sure you'd come back up. Your father seemed determined to keep you busy." The mention of Father confirmed my suspicions. I approached the bed slowly, letting my gaze travel over him with calculated appreciation. If he wanted to play this game, I'd give him exactly what he expected.
"Did he now?" I sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to see the slight tremor in Phoenix's hands. Nerves or withdrawal—either way, desperation. I reached out and let my finger hover on the edge of the sheet.
Phoenix shifted closer, the sheet slipping artfully to reveal more of his chest. "At least you’re here now."
I almost laughed. “Never thought I’d get away,” I agreed, letting my accent thicken with apparent intoxication, and glanced around casually, looking for the camera. There—the subtle gleam of a lens behind the lamp. Amateur placement. Another quick scan revealed no other obvious surveillance. Good to know what game we were playing.
"You look...comfortable," I said, trailing off as if distracted by his body. Truthfully, I was more distracted by how thin he was beneath the bravado. "Been waiting long?"
"Not long enough to get bored." Phoenix stretched, catlike, managing to look both innocent and practiced at once. "Your father's quite the character."
I let my smile harden just enough to be noticeable. "He certainly is. Always planning something."
A flicker of unease crossed Phoenix's face. "Does he always crash your celebrations?"
"Only when he wants something." I leaned closer, letting my hand rest on the sheet covering his thigh. The muscle beneath tensed immediately. "He's very...resourceful when it comes to getting what he wants."
Phoenix's eyes tracked my hand on his thigh, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You think he wants something from you tonight? Besides celebrating your win?"
"My father never just celebrates," I replied, watching his reaction carefully. "There's always a purpose. An angle."
Phoenix shifted under my touch, the sheet sliding further down his chest. "Maybe he's just proud of his son."
I laughed, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "You met him for all of ten minutes and even you don't believe that."
He had the decency to look away. "Parents are complicated."
"Indeed." I moved my hand higher on his thigh, noting how he tensed but didn't pull away. Professional. "So tell me, Phoenix—what exactly did he offer you?"
His eyes widened fractionally—surprise, perhaps, or panic. "What?"
"My father," I said patiently, as if explaining to a child. "What did he promise you? Money? Connections? A way out of whatever trouble you're in?" I gestured vaguely at his too-thin frame. "And you are in trouble, aren't you?"
Phoenix's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something raw and defensive. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" I reachedtoward the lamp where the camera was hidden, watching panic flash across his face. I pretended not to notice, adjusting the lampshade instead. "Strange coincidence, you appearing at the exact moment my father decides to make a surprise visit. Stranger still that you'd end up in my bed."
Phoenix sat up, pulling the sheet with him. "You invited me up."
"Did I?" I raised an eyebrow. "Must have been the whiskey. I tend to make poor decisions when I'm drunk."
Phoenix's gaze narrowed. "You're not as drunk as you seem, are you?"
"Takes more than whiskey to bring me down."
