He doesn’t touch me, but it’s enough. Everyone notices the way he tracks me.
I pretend not to.
When the plates are cleared, Rook leans back, folding his arms. “You’re not staying locked up all day.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Wasn’t planning on a field trip.”
His expression doesn’t change. “We’re staying in. Movie, lunch. Normal.”
“Normal,” Vale repeats, laughing under his breath. “That’srich.”
“Quiet, Devil,” Rook says, not looking at him. His focus stays on me. “You’ll join us.”
It’s phrased like an order, but something about it feels like an invitation. I hesitate, then nod. “Fine.”
“Good,” he says simply, rising from his chair. “Living room. Ten minutes.”
As he walks past, his hand brushes my shoulder—not possessive, not quite gentle either. Just enough to make me aware of the weight of his attention.
Wraith moves behind me to refill my mug, wordless, his sleeve brushing my arm. The contact is fleeting, but deliberate. A ghost of something I don’t want to name.
The tension follows me down the hall, heavy and invisible. By the time I reach the living room, the lights are dimmed and a low, unfamiliar film hums on the television—some old crime noir with rain-slick streets and too many shadows. Rook’s already on the couch, and he gestures for me to sit beside him.
I do, if only to stop another argument. The leather is warm, smelling faintly of smoke and cedar.
Wraith brings a blanket, his fingers grazing mine when he passes it over. “Here,” he mutters.
I pull it across my lap, acutely aware of how close they all are—how small the space feels when every breath, every glance, feels like it’s carrying weight.
The movie starts, and no one says a word.
I feel Rook’s arm slide along the back of the couch, then lower—slow, deliberate—until it settles behind me. I glance at him, a silent question in my eyes, but he doesn’t look away from the screen. Of course he doesn’t. So, for now, I let him stay there.
Wraith shifts on my other side, fidgeting like he can’t sit still. The movement pulls my attention from the movie—whatever the hell we’re watching—and I try to focus, but can’t. The proximity, their scent, the quiet heat between us—it’s all too much. It fills the air like London fog, thick and suffocating, seeping under my skin until I can’t think straight.
I’m so lost in it that I almost miss the brush of a hand beneath the blanket. At first it rests lightly on my thigh. Then it slides higher, fingers ghosting along the edge of my pants.
My breath catches. I dart a quick glance toward Wraith. He gives nothing away—eyes fixed on the screen, expression carved from stone. A man pretending he isn’t doing exactly what he’s doing.
I turn my head toward Rook instead. His jaw is tight, his focus locked forward. He looks unaware of the storm brewing inches away—or maybe heknows, and that’s what makes the air between us hum.
When Wraith’s fingers ghost over my heat, caressing me through my clothes, I clench my teeth in shock, trying hard to suppress my growing desire. It’s fucking hot. Knowing what he’s doing. Knowing the others don’t have a clue. God, why is that such a turn on?
Wraith massages me, working me through my leggings, the fabric becoming increasingly damp. I bite my bottom lip, trying to suppress the groan that begs to escape me.
His body goes taut beside me. I feel him shift again, obviously uncomfortable. I almost laugh, but I don’t, because I know, for a single fucking fact, it’ll clue the others in—and I bloody well don’t need that.
Wraith slips his hand inside my leggings, and it takes everything in me, not to buck my hips at the contact. His fingers find the sensitive bundle of nerves, circling mercilessly. It feels so fucking good. My breath hitches, and Rook shifts beside me, removing his arm from my back. I feel his hand slide under the blanket, and I freeze. Panic claws at me, but Rook doesn’t give anything away. He only slides his hand across my stomach, then up higher, ghosting across the lacy fabric of my bra. It’s just a brush of movement—but it’s enough to undo me.
Wraith’s fingers circle faster. Rook’s hand slides under the bra and ghosts over my nipple, fingers pinching the sensitive skin, tugging and massaging the peak. It’s the action that undoes me. I suck in a sharp breath—legs shaking under the blanket, stars blinding me until I’m forced to close my eyes.
Wraith and Rook’s hands slip out discreetly, their eyes still fixed on the movie, both pretending nothing just transpired on this couch.
I glance at Vale. He’s grinning, smug, blowing a kiss I pretend not to see.
My pulse won’t slow down. Every nerve feels awake, buzzing with something I don’t have a name for. The movie keeps playing, some dull background noise to drown out the sound of my heartbeat.
I should feel ashamed. I should feel violated. But I don’t.
