"No," Juno shook his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You were calculating. I saw you counting the exits. I saw you analyzing the crowd density."
He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder before he seemingly thought better of it and let it drop. But the intent lingered in the air.
"I've been wanting to ask you something," I said. The whiskey gave me courage, or maybe it was the way he was looking at me, like I was a narrative he was dying to rewrite.
"Ask."
I swirled the liquid in my glass. "Are you involved with Mateo and Stephen?"
Juno’s expression didn't shift. The shark-smile didn't falter, but his head tilted to the side, bird-like and inquisitive. "Involved how?"
"Romantically. Sexually," I clarified, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "I know how Packs work. Or how they usually work. You move as a single unit. You finish each other's sentences. Mateo guards you; Stephen strategizes for you. I'm trying to figure out if I'm stepping into something... complicated."
"We're packmates," Juno said effortlessly. "We've been working together for years. We share a mission, a bank account, and a profound distrust of the industry." He took a sip of his own drink, watching me over the rim. "Does it matter?" he asked.
"It might," I said honestly. "I've been with both of them to an extent. In the last fourty-eight hours. I don't want to cause problems. I don't want to break the structural integrity of the team because I..." I trailed off, searching for a word that wasn'tneedyorgreedy.
"Because you wanted to know how they worked?" Juno suggested. "Because Mateo is safety and Stephen is validation, and you were starving for both?"
It was a surgical strike. Accurate. Painless.
"Something like that," I whispered. "I don't want to wreck this."
"You won't," Juno said. He set his glass down on a side table. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. Then, his voice dropped, softer, lower. "Are you planning to be with all three of us?"
The air in the room seemed to thin. Across the penthouse, Stephen and Mateo had vanished, either into their own heads or into other rooms, sensing the shift in atmospheric pressure.
"I don't know what I'm planning," I confessed, gesturing vaguely with my free hand. "This is all... I'm usually the onewith the spreadsheet, Juno. I map the variables, I plan the appearances, I write the contracts. I don'tbecomethe variable, no one has ever been focused on me, I'm not who they want to see."
Juno stepped closer. He didn't loom like Mateo. He didn't fence me in like Stephen. He just flowed into my space until he was the only thing I could see.
"May I kiss you?"
My breath caught. It was a formal request, a contract negotiation in four words.
"Yes," I breathed.
Juno moved. He cupped my face with both hands, his fingers sliding into the hair at my temples.
He kissed differently.
Mateo kissed like an anchor dropping. Stephen kissed like a question being answered. Juno kissed like something leashed.
It was controlled, precise, but underneath the surface tension, there was a hunger that felt vast and ancient. He tasted of champagne and secrets. His mouth moved against mine with a devastating proficiency, teasing my lips apart, his tongue sweeping inside not to conquer, but to coax.
It was a seduction. It was a narrative he was spinning against my mouth,You are safe, you are wanted, you are mine.
I responded instantly, a whimper catching in my throat. I dropped my glass, thankfully onto the thick carpet, and grabbed his waist, pulling him flush against me. The silk of his shirt was slippery under my hands.
He broke the kiss, breathless, his forehead resting against mine. His amber eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide.
"Bedroom," he murmured. "Now."
We didn't walk; we gravitated.
In my room, the heavy curtains were drawn, shutting out the city. Juno didn't rip my clothes off. He dismantled me.
He unzipped the black dress with a slow, deliberate sound that made my toes curl. He peeled the silk from my shoulders, his hands following the fabric down, tracing the line of my spine, the curve of my waist.
