My hand lifts to my mouth before I can stop it, fingertips grazing my lips. They’re swollen, tingling, traitorous. I can still feel the weight of him, the restraint that cracked when he pulled me in. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.
It wasn’t supposed to happen at all. I told myself I wanted control.Leverage. To see if I could make him want me enough to use it later.
Instead, I kissed him like I meant it. Like I fucking meant it! What the fuck is wrong with me?
The room feels too small. My heartbeat too loud. The perfume I’d dabbed earlier has turned acrid, sweet and suffocating. I drag my hands through my hair, trying to think, trying not to replay the sound he made when he broke away — that guttural, human sound of someone losing a fight with themselves.
I press my palms to the cool wood and whisper, “Idiot.”
Because that’s what I am. An idiot with shaking hands and an hour to compose herself before dinner.
Dinner. Oh God, fucking dinner.
My stomach drops because I forgot one crucial detail. He’ll be there. All of them will.
I didn’t think that far ahead when I put the dress on. Didn’t think about sitting across the table from five men who make a living reading tells.
They’ll see it. The flush, the fidget, the tremor in my voice.
And worse —he’llsee it.
I push away from the door, move to the vanity, and stare at my reflection. My face looks the same, but my eyes don’t. There’ssomething raw there, something alive and afraid. I touch my throat where his breath had been and feel a pulse flutter back, frantic.
There’s no undoing it. I’ll have to face them like this.
By the time the clock downstairs chimes seven, my nerves are strung so tight I could shatter glass by looking at it.
I straighten the dress, grab the jacket again — armor inthindisguise — and step out into the hallway.
The scent of food hits before the sound does. A decadent dinner of roasted meat, garlic, paired with something rich and spiced. My stomach twists with hunger and dread.
They’re already at the table when I walk in. All fucking five of them.
Rook at the head, unreadable as ever. Wraith to his right, staring at his plate like it’s a confession. Vale opposite, smirking before I’ve even sat down. Ash, quiet and calculating, eyes darting once over me like he’s taking inventory. And Saint, serene in a way that isn’t comforting — like a man who’s made peace with his damnation.
Every head turns as I enter, and the air changes. The scrape of a chair leg is the only sound as I move toward the empty seat between Vale and Saint.
“Evening,” I manage, voice steady only because I force it to be.
“Afternoon, technically,” Vale says, grinning. “But who’s counting?”
Rook doesn’t speak. Just watches me. His gaze drags slow — from my face to my throat, then further down to the edge of the dress. It’s not lascivious, no. It’sdissecting. He’s cataloguing changes, noting behavior, looking for cracks.
Wraith still hasn’t looked up.
I take my seat, snatch a fork and knife, holding with perfect posture.
“Nice dress,” Vale murmurs. “Wasn’t in your rotation before.”
“I found it,” I say simply.
“I bet you did,” he replies, biting his bottom lip. I ignore it, because it will only make him worse and I don’t intent to encourage anyone else tonight.
Saint shoots him a warning glance, the kind that says behave.
“Eat,” Rook says, voice a quiet command.
No one argues, and we all dig in. The meal passes in fragments — the clink of silverware, the occasional cough, Vale’s too-loud chuckle breaking through like a match strike.
