"That's enough," Richard says.
"Is it? Because I thought the point of these dinners was to 'iron out our differences.'" Zero makes air quotes, his longfingers cutting through the air. "Hard to do that if we're not allowed to talk about what's actually going on."
The table goes deadly silent.
Bane's hand has moved to his jaw, fingers rubbing absently at the stubble there. Atlas is completely still, that predator stillness I've seen before, every muscle coiled. Zero is practically vibrating with barely contained energy, his leg bouncing under the table hard enough that I can feel the vibration through the floor.
Richard's gaze sweeps across his sons, then lands on me for a long, uncomfortable moment. I feel pinned in place. Examined.
"And what," Richard says slowly, "is actually going on?"
Nobody answers.
Atlas's hand moves—slow, deliberate—to rest on the table. His fingers spread wide, as if he's bracing himself. Or holding himself back.
Margot's hand tightens on Richard's arm. "Maybe we should talk about the vacation details later. When everyone's had time to think about it."
"Margot—"
"The chicken is getting cold," she says firmly. "Let's just... let's just enjoy dinner. Please."
Richard exhales through his nose. But he picks up his fork. Returns to his food.
The conversation limps along after that. Margot asks about the weather forecast for the week. Richard mentions a golf game with a colleague. Atlas offers a few words about a restaurant he tried recently, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest more than hear. Bane pushes food around his plate, occasionally glancing up through his lashes in a way that makes my skin prickle. Zero says nothing at all, but his presence is a weight, a pressure, his energy filling the room even in silence.
It's stilted and awkward, everyone dancing around the elephant in the room, but at least words are being exchanged.
I focus on breathing. On keeping my body under control. On not looking at the three pairs of eyes I can feel watching me whenever Margot and Richard aren't paying attention.
Then it hits.
A wave of heat rolls through me, sudden and intense, like someone's turned up a dial inside my body. My skin prickles. My vision blurs at the edges. The sizzle in my veins becomes a roar, rushing through me, pooling low in my belly.
I grip the edge of the table. Try to ride it out.
But I can smell myself now. That's the terrifying part. I can smell my own scent thickening in the air—honey and vanilla and something darker, smokier,needier. Leaking out of me like I'm a cracked vessel that can't hold anything in anymore.
Three heads snap toward me.
Atlas goes still. Completely, utterly still, like a predator that's just caught wind of prey. His fork hovers halfway to his mouth, forgotten.
Zero's nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. I watch his hands curl into fists on the table, knuckles going white.
Bane inhales sharply across the table. I hear it somehow, even over the ambient noise—the quick, stuttered breath, the way his whole body goes tense.
They can smell it. All of them. They can smell what's happening to me, what's been building for days, what I can't control no matter how hard I try.
Our eyes meet. Just for a second. Atlas's gray, Zero's ice-blue, Bane's hazel. Three different colors, three different men, but the same look in all of them.
Hunger.
"—and I thought we could bring that wine from the cellar, the one from our anniversary. Richard? Richard, are you listening?"
"Hmm?" Richard drags his attention back to Margot. "Yes, the wine. That sounds fine."
The moment breaks. The brothers look away—Atlas back to his plate, Zero to the window, Bane to his water glass. But the tension doesn't dissipate. It hangs in the air like humidity before a storm, thick and suffocating.
Margot stands, oblivious. "I almost forgot—I made dessert! Chocolate lava cakes. They're Max's favorite."
