The Blackwood dining roomstretches vast and frigid, a cathedral of rot dressed in opulence. Stained glass windows scatter shards of crimson and gold across the polished mahogany. Servants move in metronomic rhythm around the table, setting down silver platters with unerring precision. None meet my eyes.
My ruby pulses erratically against my throat as Dom guides me to my seat, his palm firm at the base of my spine. Something is wrong. I press my fingers to the pendant and feel the faint edges of new cracks, ones I swear weren’t there this morning. The last thing I need is for it to explode between the fruit bowl and bacon.
“Here.” Dom pulls out my chair, hovering as I sit. “You should eat something.”
The table gleams with abundance: bowls of honey-drenched figs, berries polished to near-glass, flaky pastries still steaming. Dom reaches for the fruit, hands shaking almost imperceptibly as he arranges each piece on my plate.
“I can do that myself,” I say, but he’s already pouring tea into the bone china cup I once claimed as mine. Two spoonfuls of honey, a splash of cream. He stirs exactly three times, the silver making soft circles in the silence.
A maid approaches with a fresh tray of croissants. Her steps are measured, soft soles against the marble. Her ruby—a faded, diluted thing—glows faintly at her throat as she passes me. Our eyes meet for half a second before hers dart away.
The fury I’ve been keeping on a leash snaps taut, fed by every tremor in Dom’s fingers, every flicker of fear from the staff, every erratic pulse from the fractured ruby at my throat. It’s all a noose tightening around my throat, and I’m starting to forget how to breathe through it.
Footsteps echo through the hall—sharp, deliberate clicks mingled with feminine giggles trailing behind. Servants scatter like startled vermin, and Dom goes still as Kian strides in, silk robe hanging open, his hair deliciously mussed. A stunning redhead clings to him, swimming in one of his dress shirts, her lips fastened to his neck.
“Well,” he drawls, voice slithering across the room, “if this isn’t the fucking picture of domesticity.” His smile splits his face wide, feral and gleaming, as her hand disappears beneath his robe. He doesn’t pause, just snaps his fingers. “Coffee. Hot this time.”
The girl gasps when he grabs her wrist mid-grope.
“That’s enough sampling for today, kitten.” He lands a sharp smack on her ass that echoes through the dining room. “Run along now. Smoke will see to your payment.”
I can’t help but stare as she pouts, clearly wanting to stay, but another stern look sends her scurrying away, the shirt barely covering anything.
Kian turns to me, catching the disgust I don’t bother to hide and laughs.
“What?” He sprawls into his chair. “You think a man builds an empire of vices without sampling the stock? If I’m going to put my name on a body, I’d better damn well know if it moans or fakes it.” His eyes glitter with malice. “Quality control is everything in this business.”
The implication sinks claws into me. My eyes snap to Dom, stomach churning at the thought of him “testing” girls for The Den.Something must show on my face because Kian’s laughter turns cruel.
“Oh, don’t fret, dear future daughter. Your precious lover boy here hasn’t dipped into the merchandise. Wouldn’t even touch a club girl without your permission. He’s disgustingly loyal that way. Though I’ve tried to teach him better business practices.”
Dom’s hand finds my knee under the table. I shift away, the touch grating against my already frayed nerves. His hurt expression only feeds the guilt simmering in my chest.
“Now where is my damn coffee!” Kian roars, slamming his hand on the table. “By the time it arrives, the gods will return, judgment will fall, and I’ll still be sitting here with a limp dick and dry mouth. Though I suppose apocalyptic destruction might actually speed up the service around here.”
A maid hurries forward, carafe trembling. He stares her down as she pours, his smile all teeth. He bumps her elbow, and coffee sloshes onto the white linen.
“Oh dear,” he says mockingly. “How clumsy of you. That’ll come out of your pay. Along with the last three tablecloths you fucked up.”
He dismisses her with a flick of his fingers, already bored and searching for his next target.
“Father.” Dom’s voice grits through clenched teeth. He reaches for my hand again and I curl my fingers into fists beneath the table.
“What?” Kian knocks over a crystal glass, watching it shatter with childlike delight. “Accidents happen. Don’t they, sweetheart?” His gaze cuts to the maid now kneeling on the marble. “Like that nasty burn on your wrist from last week’s . . . mishap.”
Dom tries to press a strawberry to my lips, his gesture of comfort making me more pissed. I turn my face away, and Kian’s smirk sharpens.
“Speaking of accidents—look who’s vertical! And so . . . changed.” His fingers tap bone china in a jagged rhythm that makes the servants flinch. “Tell me, any interesting side effects from yourbrush with death? Unnatural cravings? Sudden homicidal tendencies?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say coolly, keeping my voice level while Dom’s grip dents the table’s edge, “since no one’s explained what happened to me while I was unconscious.”
“Suspicious little thing.” Kian chuckles, deliberately tipping the sugar bowl until crystals spill. “Though I suppose near-death experiences can make one paranoid.”
“The hybrid that attacked me—”
“Was a tragic accident.” His voice drips with false sympathy. “Though your recovery? Nothing short of miraculous. Vale’s team outdid themselves.” He turns to a shaking maid. “Speaking of divine miracles, where the fuck are my eggs? Did we raise the chicken ourselves and walk it through therapy first?”
“Do you really have to—” Dom tries to speak, but Kian slices the air with a hand.
