Calanthe and Tarian share everything. Of course he would’ve told her.
Silence descends upon the mahogany kitchen as Mom watches me, Malachi watches the towel he’s finally finished folding, and I watch the metal dome pendant hung over the island, trailing its beam to Mom’s green tea.
“Why did we meet here?” I finally ask.
“Because Gael is at the apartment with Dorian and Ines. He made it past your doorman using compulsion.” Mom sighs. “We told him that you’d initiate contact, and not the other way around.” After a brief pause, she asks, “Do you feel like seeing him?”
Her pupils are tiny and pulsing. I can’t tell if it’s concern or trepidation. Icantell she’d prefer I don’t want to meet him. But…why? Because she worries I’ll stop considering her and Dad like my parents? Or because Monta isn’t a good man?
To think that my greatest concern an hour ago was what to do about my growing attraction to my fake boyfriend. “I’d like to meet him.”
Worry greens Mom’s eyes. She would’ve preferred resistance from me. Or a staunch refusal.
Before she can mistake my consent for anticipation, I say, “Would he stop seeking me out?”
“No.” Her reply is as soft as the sigh it precedes.
I rake my fingers through my hair, pushing my short locks out of my face. My hands, normally warm, feel carved out of ice. “Arrange a meeting tomorrow. With you and Dorian.”
“I’ll be there, too,” Malachi says.
“If you come, then Callie’ll want to be there. And possibly Diego and Tarian.”
“And…?” Malachi asks.
“And then it becomes a party,” I deadpan. “Look, I appreciate everyone’s protectiveness, but I’d prefer to meet with him semi-privately the first time.”
Malachi works his jaw, evidently displeased that I don’t want him at the meet-and-greet. I’m aware he’s always looked out for me, but this is a family thing. And for all my affection for him, Malachi Hadez is not family. Not like Dorian and Mom are.
Does he want to be?a little voice in my head murmurs before gaining traction and rehashing one of my conversations with Cillian.
I never looked at my sister like he looks at you.
You’re imagining things, Cillian.
I’m not.
Just becauseyouwant to fuck me doesn’t mean anyone else does.
To think he tossed those words back at me on the dance floor.
To think my bodywasinclined to do just that.
My skin warms from the memory of Cillian’s callused hands and grazing breaths. From the sensation of his nose plowing across my cheek to deliver heady whispers into my ears.
Your body. It’s my fucking kryptonite.
The effect Cillian had on me feels impossible and surreal, incapacitating, as though he were using magic to seduce me.
I’d never been as turned on, not even while reading erotica—and I’d read my fair share of scorching hot scenes since discovering the genre at the ripe old age of thirteen, after having bought a book with a cowboy hat and a flower on the cover. I thought I was in for a Western meet-cute, not a raunchy rodeo where the heroine did most of the riding—none of it, on bucking horses.
My fingers itch to slide my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and write him a message, but what would I say:Come over?My mother is sleeping at the Penthouse.
Icouldhead to his gym’s parking lot. But then, what?
“Sweetheart.” Mom presses the back of her hand against my forehead. “Are you feeling all right? You’re looking very feverish.”
I duck out of her reach and away from Malachi’s probing gaze before either can realize the actual source of my fever. “Can we go home, or is he still there?”
