The table shifted, tension coiling tight.
Titus slid back into the curved leather booth first, and Viper followed—close enough that their knees brushed under the table. Not hard. Not accidental. Titus didn’t move away.
Viper caught Syx shift his stance—subtle, protective—keying off the tension rolling off Titus.
Vale, meanwhile, watched Hale with a still, patient focus that put Viper on alert.
Ocean sat perched at the edge of the booth, curls falling into his eyes, studying every shift in the room like it mattered.
Hale’s smile returned, slow. “And your fiancé will be attending?”
He nodded toward Viper.
Viper didn’t hesitate. “I go where Titus goes.”
The line settled across the table like a dropped blade.
Hale took it in—every word, every implication—before his smile returned, faint and unreadable. “How interesting.”
A small change flickered across Titus’s face—a tightening at the corner of his mouth, heat Viper recognized instantly.
Pleased.
Titus buried it fast, looking away like he hadn’t slipped. But Viper knew better.
He wanted to reach for Titus again.
Wanted too many things.
Hale’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, expression tightening minutely, then excused himself with a polished smile and stepped away from the table—toward a quieter alcove.
The second he was out of earshot, Titus exhaled and dropped his head into his hand, fingers pressing the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are you doing here?” he muttered.
Viper leaned in, voice low. “You kissed me. I’m staying.”
Titus lifted his head, eyes blazing. “That wasn’t a kiss.”
Viper’s mouth curved—slow, knowing, infuriating. “Then you’re going to have to show me the difference.”
The private elevator slid open with a soft chime, spilling them into the quiet of the forty-second floor. Titus stepped out first, pulse still a hard, uneven hammer from the kiss—blood loud in his ears, adrenaline refusing to settle.
He keyed the penthouse door. It unlocked with a muted click.
Inside, the place sat in low shadow—floor-to-ceiling glass throwing the city’s lights across polished concrete and clean, modern lines.
Not the YA apartment one floor down. Both places were his. Harrington property. But this one he used exclusively for himself, and he used it whenever Manhattan demanded a place that wasn’t shared walls and too many eyes.
He didn’t stop moving.
The space held only the subtle markers of someone who returned now and then: clothes folded with precision into a walk-in closet, a stocked bathroom, a fresh set of sheets pulled tight across the bed. No active gear. No go-bag—he’d left those in the other apartment. Here, it was just the essentials he kept—enough to shower, to sleep, to fuck, to disappear when needed.
Titus shrugged out of his Zegna jacket, letting it fall across the nearest chair. His cuffs hung open; his tie was long gone. Heat clung to him—tension that hadn’t eased once since the alley outside the club.
“Ah.” Viper looked around, advancing slowly through the expensive foyer. “Who owns this?”
“I do.”
A brief shock crossed Viper’s face—sharp, unguarded, gone in a blink.
