I deepen it just slightly, enough to feel the shape of her mouth, the soft sound she makes when she forgets herself. My other hand slides to her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her hip. She fits there. Too easily.
She exhales against my mouth, and it’s the most dangerous sound I’ve heard in years.
I pull back before it turns into something else. Before it becomes something I can’t pretend is a mistake.
Her eyes are glassy. Lips parted. Breathing shallow.
“Saint,” she whispers.
“Little lamb,” I murmur, brushing my forehead to hers, “you are going to ruin us.”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “You’re the one who came in here like you were seeking absolution.”
A quiet laugh escapes me. “Yes,” I admit. “I did.”
I step back, slowly, giving her space even as it clearly costs her something. It costs me more.
“You should sleep,” I say. “Tomorrow gets uglier.”
Her voice is barely sound. “You’re not staying?”
“No.” I reach for the door. “If I stay, I won’t behave.”
Her lips twitch. “You weren’t behaving anyway.”
I grin. “I was restrained.” I open the door, then pause, looking back at her—flushed, breathing hard, eyes still burning. “Goodnight, my divine trouble,” I murmur.
And then I leave, the hallway swallowing me whole, her scent still on my hands and her defiance still humming through my blood.
Wraith is going to lose hismind.
Chapter 32
Ember
Morning arrives soft and deceitful.
The storm has passed, but the air still carries that faint metallic scent of rain and ash. Light filters through the townhouse’s high windows in pale ribbons, catching dust motes that drift like tiny ghosts above the breakfast table.
Everyone’s already there.
Saint sits in near-silence, eyes half-lidded behind his coffee, jaw tight in a way it wasn’t yesterday. He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Which is new. And irritating. Vale sprawls in his chair, spinning a butter knife between his fingers as though the table were a stage and he were the chaos meant to fill it. Wraith leans against the counter, arms folded, expression unreadable. And Rook—always the picture of control—reads the morning paper like the rest of them aren’t armed and dangerous.
I take my usual seat. The china clinks too loud when I touch it, my nerves already strung tight. I feel every pair of eyes in the room, though none of them stay long. Saint’s shoulder is rigid. Wraith’s jaw flexes once. Vale’s grin lingers a second too long.
Rook folds the paper once, sets it down, and looks at me. “You’ll need something appropriate for this evening,” he says simply.
I blink. “Appropriate?”
“We’re dining at Aureline’s,” he replies. “Private reservation. High-profile clientele. You’ll need a dress that doesn’t make the hostess faint.”
“Or make her faint for the right reasons,” Vale adds, grinning.
I cut him a look, then turn back to Rook. “And this is necessarybecause…?”
“Because presence matters,” Rook says. “And so do impressions.”
I lean back slightly, frustration weaving through my chest at the audacity of Rook. “I’m not a fucking prop.”
