I look back at Leoni. She’s deep in sleep now, light snores escaping her.
But I know what this will mean. To my father. To Erik.
The game is in motion. We’re all on the board. All playing a part.
She just became a fault line. And every man in my family is going to try to break her open.
I drag a hand over my face, my jaw tight. There is no universe where I can let that happen.
None.
Even if I have to burn every bridge, every city. Every person I know. Even if I have to become the thing I was raised to be, to protect her from it.
Leoni Dove will not get burned in this war.
I sit down in the chair beside the bed. And I keep watch.
Chapter Ten
LEONI
Warmth. Real warmth.
It’s the first thing I register. Not the scratch of a cheap blanket, not the stale hospital-clean air of Mum’s house, but soft duvet, thick mattress, quiet. Expensive. Luxury.
I blink slowly.
The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, city light bleeding in. I know this room. I know this ceiling. I know the faint scent of bergamot and smoke clinging to the sheets.
Warren’s penthouse.
I push myself upright, blinking as the memories of last night hit in fragments.
The argument. Jordan’s words. The panic. Dialling the wrong number. Warren’s voice on the phone. His hands. His chest. Warm. Solid. Safe.
My heart squeezes painfully.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand slowly, like I might break if I move too fast.
Voices don’t greet me. No staff. No footsteps. Just the smell of something good cooking. Bacon?
I frown. That can’t be right.
Warren Baxter does notcook. Warren Baxterorders. Warren Baxter commands entire rooms with a lift of his eyebrow. Warren Baxter does not fry anything unless it’s someone’s career.
I grab a pair of joggers by the bed and roll them over at the top to fit. Then I pull on one of his t-shirts and make my way down the short hallway, pausing at the kitchen entrance.
He’s there. Barefoot. Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. Tie gone. Hair slightly mussed. Standing in front of the stove. Cooking.Actual cooking.
And I just stare.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Something green that looks suspiciously like spinach. He flips the eggs with confidence.
He looks up when he senses me. Of course, he senses me. The man probably has predator-level awareness built into his DNA.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice low, unreadable. His eyes scan my body, and a smile tugs at his lips. “You look good in my clothes.”
“I—” I clear my throat, because it sounds like gravel. “You cook?”
