He steps closer. His body heat radiates against mine.
"Instead, we are going to take everything they built and make it ours."
My breathing steadies. The rage doesn't leave, but it changes shape. It condenses. It becomes a cold, hard knot in my stomach. A weapon I can aim.
I look at Rory.
He hasn't moved. He is staring at the screen, his face pale. He looks like a child again. The child I failed to protect from the truth.
"Rory," I say.
He looks up. "I'm okay, Kill."
He’s lying. But it’s a kind lie.
"I'll prep the document," he says, his voice shaking. "Clean copies. Authenticated. When you need it, it’ll be bulletproof."
He closes the laptop. He shoves it into his bag. He stands up, moving toward the door. He knows. He reads the room the way he reads everything.
"I'll work from the café downstairs," he says.
The door closes. The lock clicks.
Silence.
Alessandro and I stand in the wreckage. Splintered wood. Spilled pigment. And the twenty-three-year-old lie that defined us.
I look at him. The Prince. The son of the other architect.
I close the distance.
My hands find his hips. The grip is hard, desperate. I need to hold something real. Because the ground under my feet has turned to sand.
"You," I say. "You're the only thing that's real."
His hands come up to my face. He cups my jaw. His thumbs trace the bone.
"I know," he whispers.
I kiss him.
It isn't fast. It isn't violent. It is a desperate, searching connection. I taste him—coffee and warmth and life. I drink him in. I need to fill the hollowness inside me.
My hands move from his hips to his belt. The buckle opens. The button. The zipper. I lower myself—not falling, not dropping, but descending with a deliberation that mirrors the one he gave me in the kitchen.
My knees hit the floor. The wood is hard and scattered with debris, and I don't feel it.
I pull his trousers and briefs down his thighs. His cock is half-hard—filling, thickening under my gaze. I take him in my hand. The weight of him in my palm is warm and solid—real, undeniable.
I lean forward. My lips close around the head.
The taste is salt and skin and Alessandro. It grounds me. It pulls me out of the past and into the present.
I take him deep. I override my gag reflex. I force my throat to open, to accommodate him. I want him inside me. I want to be filled.
Alessandro’s hands tangle in my hair. He grips tight. His hips buck forward, a small, involuntary movement.
"Killian," he breathes.
