Stephen was at the bar, pouring whiskey into a tumbler with the precision of a man measuring out a lethal dose. His cufflinks glinted under the low lights, platinum, engraved with a pattern I recognized from the Anchor Protocol’s legal filings. Of course he’d had them made so he could wear them like armor.
Mateo was by the door, arms crossed, his broad frame blocking the entrance like a human deadbolt. He wasn’t watching the hall. He was watchingme. His dark eyes tracked my movements with the quiet intensity of a man who had spent entirely too much time memorizing the exact weight of my footsteps.
Juno was sprawled across the sofa, one arm slung over the back, his golden-brown curls tousled from where he’d been running his fingers through them. He looked like he’d been electrocuted, pupils blown, skin flushed, the scent of sandalwood and white tea clinging to him. He was still riding the high of the press conference, the way he always did after a performance. The way heneededto after a performance.
I knew that feeling. The crash. The hunger.
The need toconfirm.
I walked toward them.
No one spoke. The air between us was thick with the kind of silence that only existed after a battle, when the guns were still warm and the adrenaline hadn’t quite bled out. The kind of silence that demanded to be broken.
Juno’s gaze locked onto mine. His lips curved, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting the shape of my name.
“You were ruthless up there,” he murmured.
“I was accurate,” I corrected, stopping in front of him.
“Same thing.”
I reached out, brushing my thumb over the pulse point at his wrist. His skin was hot. Too hot. He was still burning from the press conference, from the way he’d stood on that stage and let them see him, not the mask, not the strategist, but the Omega who had outmaneuvered every Alpha in the room.
The Omega who had chosenme.
Stephen set his glass down. The sharpclinkof crystal against wood was the only sound in the room.
“You’re still dressed,” he observed, his voice low.
I looked down. My suit was immaculate, not a wrinkle in the fabric, not a hair out of place. I’d spent the last hour answering questions, fielding offers, watching the market react to the announcement like a sleeping giant waking up to find its chains broken.
I was still in armor.
I met Stephen’s gaze. “So are you.”
A beat. Then Stephen moved.
He didn’t rush. He never rushed. But when he closed the distance between us, it felt like gravity, inevitable and inescapable. His fingers found the top button of my blazer, slipping it free with a practiced ease. The fabric parted. Cool air hit the skin of my throat.
“This,” he said, tugging the blazer from my shoulders, “is no longer necessary.”
The jacket pooled on the floor.
Mateo made a sound, low, rough, the kind of noise that lived in his chest and only escaped when he was pushed past the edge of control. I turned my head just enough to see him, to watch the way his hands flexed against his biceps, the way his dark eyes burned.
“You’re overthinking,” Mateo said.
“I’massessing,” I shot back.
Juno laughed, the sound rich and warm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “She’s always assessing.”
Stephen’s fingers found the next button. Then the next. My blouse fell open, the silk sliding apart to reveal the black lace beneath. His knuckles grazed the swell of my breasts, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Assessment period is over,” Stephen murmured.
Juno sat up, his movements fluid, predatory. He reached for me, his hands settling on my hips, pulling me down onto the sofa beside him. The leather was cool against the back of my thighs.
“You’re still in your head,” Juno accused, his breath hot against my ear. “And we’rehere.”
