“She’s under my protection,” I snap.
Vale laughs, dark and delighted. “Protection. That what we’re calling it now?”
“Bloody fools,” Saint says, voice mild but warning.
Wraith takes a step closer. “You don’t get to talk about protection when you can’t even protect her fromyourself.”
The hit comes before I decide to throw it. My fist connects with his jaw, the crack echoing off marble and glass. He stumbles back, not from pain—Wraith’s built for worse—but from surprise.
“Feel better?” he growls.
“No,” I say, shaking out my hand. “But I’ll live.”
Vale claps once, mock applause echoing. “Boys, boys, please. If you break the furniture, at least let me film it.”
Ash stands suddenly, voice sharp. “Enough!”
Everyone looks at him, confusion written all over our faces. He’s the stronghold, the stony front. The quiet one that never raises his voice.
He glares at us both. “She’s tearing usapart, and you’relettingher. You think this is aboutcontrol? It’s not. It’s alreadygone.”
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Vale laughs again, low and certain. “Oh, it’s gone all right.” He leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming. “Question is—who’s going to admit they like it that way?”
Wraith wipes the blood from his lip. I stare at him, still breathing hard, the taste of adrenaline thick in my mouth. No one admits anything. But we all know the answer.
The others clear out one by one. Vale goes first, whistling low under his breath, muttering something about “sexual tension and shattered egos.” Saint follows, glass in hand, tossing me a look that’s equal parts pity and amusement. Ash lingers in the doorway for a second, expression unreadable. He doesn’t say a word—just leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. Wraith’sthe last to go. He holds my gaze for a beat too long, his jaw bruised, pride darker still. Then he turns and stalks out.
And just like that, it’s quiet again.
I drag a hand down my face, my knuckles throbbing where they met his jaw. The sting feelsgood. Reminds me I’m still in control, or at least pretending to be.
The couch sits there like a crime scene. The blanket, the faint scent of her perfume—citrus and smoke—clings to the leather. It hits me harder than the fight did.
What thehellam I doing?
She’s supposed to be leverage. Aliability. A problem we’re meant to solve, not touch. But she’s wormed her way into the cracks between us, and I let it happen.
I drop into the chair opposite the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the space where she sat. The memory plays back too easily—the flicker of her throat when she swallowed, the faint tremor in her breath. The way her body reacted when she thought no one could see.
And Ididsee. That’s the problem. I see too much.
Always have.
It’s what keeps me alive—and what’s going to ruin me this time.
I lean back, exhaling slow, watching the ceiling light flicker like it’s pulsing with the same rhythm as my heart. The fight didn’t fix anything. It only confirmed what I already knew.
The control’s…gone.
Wraith wants her. Vale wants chaos. Saint wants redemption, or maybe just distraction. And Ash—God knows what Ash wants, but I can see it forming behind those quiet eyes.
Andme?
I want her out of my head. Out of this house. Out of us.
Instead, I picture her walking down the hall right now, still flushed from earlier, still caught somewhere between shame andhunger. I can’t decide which expression suits her better. The worst part is—I’m not sure I’d stop it if she walked back in.
I close my eyes, jaw tight. The room smells like her—temptation dressed as trouble.
