"If we're lucky," I add, "we might be able to share her."
They both look at me. Questioning. Confused. Like I just spoke a language they don't understand.
"Haven't you shared a woman before?" I ask. "You don't know what you're missing. There's nothing like being able to pleasure a woman that way. To give her so much that she can't think, can't do anything except feel. To see her lose control because she's overwhelmed, because she has everything she needs all at once."
I pause. Let that image settle.
"To watch her come apart because three men are focused entirely on her pleasure. On making her feel worshipped. Consumed. Satisfied in ways one man never could."
Silence. They're considering it. I can see the wheels turning behind their eyes, can see them imagining it. Lily between us. Lily taking everything we can give. Lily choosing not one but all of us.
We finish our cigarettes. Drop them on the concrete. Crush them under our boots, the embers dying with soft hisses.
"What do you want done with the body?" I ask Luan.
"Leave it on the doorstep of my father's house," Luan says. His voice is flat. Final. No room for negotiation. "Where he had his office. A warning for anyone else considering coming after me."
"Done."
Luan looks at both of us. His eyes are clearer now than they've been in weeks. Sharp. Focused. Seeing.
"Let's go to our girl," he says.
24
LILY
I'm nervous.
More than nervous. My hands shake. My thoughts spiral into patterns I can't control, looping endlessly through the same questions without finding answers.
I don't know what last night with Luan means. Was it just a moment? Something that happened because we were both vulnerable and needy? Or does he want something more? Something that extends beyond one night of heat and desperation and connection that felt too real to be temporary?
And the other men. The way they looked at me this morning when I walked into that kitchen. They know. There's no way they don't know what happened between me and Luan.
Artan's face when he walked in. The silence that dropped like a stone into water, ripples spreading outward. The weight ofhis stare, heavy enough to feel like a physical touch. Not angry, exactly. Something more complicated. Something that looked like hurt mixed with resignation.
Erion's smirk. Like he was amused by the whole situation. Or maybe pleased. Or maybe something else I couldn't read because his expressions shift too fast, change too often, reveal and conceal in equal measure.
I don't know how to tell them. Don't know how to explain that I've been intimate with all of them in different ways.
How do you even have that conversation?
So I'm doing what I always do when I'm stressed, when my thoughts won't settle and my chest feels too tight.
I'm baking.
The kitchen counter is covered. Banana bread cooling on wire racks, the tops cracked and golden. Chocolate chip cookies arranged on parchment paper, still warm enough that the chocolate is soft. A lemon cake with cream cheese frosting, the tangy sweetness filling the air. Cinnamon rolls rising under a clean towel, the dough pillowy and smooth. Brownies cut into perfect squares, fudgy and rich.
I can't stop. Every time I think I'm done, every time I tell myself that's enough, I find another recipe. Another thing to make. Another way to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted from the spiral threatening to pull me under.
Flour dusts the counter, my apron, my forearms. Sugar crystals stick to my fingers. The oven radiates heat that makes the kitchen almost too warm, but I don't care. The repetitive motions soothe me. Measuring. Mixing. Pouring. Shaping. Watching raw ingredients transform into something complete and whole.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through my concentration, pulls me back from the edge of the spiral. I wipe my flour-covered hands on my apron, leaving white streaks across the fabric, and grab the phone from where it sits on the counter.
The caller ID makes me smile despite everything.
