She doesn’t wake.
But her fingers twitch on the sheet.
Reaching.
My jaw clenches.
“You’re dreaming of me,” I murmur, stepping closer to her side of the bed. “I fucking know you are.”
Her lashes flutter.
And my knees nearly give.
I crouch beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. Close enough to smell her skin—warm, soft, the exact scent that used to stain my shirts after nights she’d pretend she wasn’t clinging to me.
“Little sister…” It comes out broken. “Don’t you dare pretend you’re his.”
My gaze flicks to Noah again.
His hand rests over her stomach.
My vision tunnels.
I reach out.
Not to touch her.
Not yet.
Not like this.
I slide two fingers under the edge of the duvet—just enough to curl the blanket a half inch away from her body. Enough to see the line of her thigh beneath the sheets. Enough to remember exactly how she looked the night before court broke us.
Noah breathes deeply, shifting again.
Scarlett moves in response.
Their bodies press together.
A cold, violent calm washes over me.
“I should break his fucking hand,” I whisper, watching where his fingers rest on her skin. “Snap every bone until he screams.”
But I don’t.
Not tonight.
Killing him would end the game too early.
Hurting him would wake her—and I don’t want her terrified when she sees me for the first time.
I want her breathless.
I want her confused.
I want her aching.
So I lean closer, lowering my face until my lips almost brush her ear.
