He’s got that right.
Elijah, ever composed, doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. He gives nothing away. His expression remains infuriatingly smooth. Calm. Unruffled. I almost envy him. That kind of stellar composure should be illegal.
I, on the other hand, possess zero bravado. I’m all exposed wires and circuits. No poker face to speak of.
“Alex,” Elijah soothes, stepping closer, his hand brushing along the side of my stricken face. A rough knuckle grazes my cheekbone, then slides to my chin.
“Look at me, baby.”
I do.
At least… I think I do.
Nope. Still staring at Noah.
Shit.
I force my gaze—slowly, painfully—over to Elijah.
“Why don’t you both take your drinks into the sitting room?” he suggests, calm as ever. “I’ll make Alex some tea. We’ll join you in a moment.”
Tea?
What happened toa drink makes everyone happy?
Oh. Right. He’s now sitting in the other room next to Noah…veryhappy.
Guess I’m getting fucking tea now.
Which, by the way, is what I drink when I get migraines.
And we both know—I don’t have one.
Still, I play along. Watch him fill the kettle like this is just another quiet evening. Like this isn’t a social experiment that’s spiraled straight into hell.
I stay quiet, pretending to focus on the sound of the kettle warming, but the truth is I’m watching them from the corner of my eye.
Gabriel eases himself into the loveseat beside Noah and immediately settles in—an arm draped over Noah’s shoulder, casual and effortless. His legs shift just enough that their thighs touch. Intimate. Intentional.
He leans in, murmuring something in that damn Latin accent—loud enough that I catch every syllable from across the room.
Noah chuckles.
I wince.
And then come the lashes. God. The way he lifts them at Gabriel in a soft, flirtatious sweep, all easy smiles and bright eyes.
My stomach pitches.
I might actually throw up.
“Alex…” Elijah’s voice cuts through my seething thoughts as he sets a mug of hot tea in front of me. The aroma is faintly familiar. Safe. Soothing. Lame.
I take it anyway, because what else am I going to do—throw it at him? Swallow it and keep pretending? Yep. That sounds about right.
I lift it to my nose, hoping—praying—for even the slightest hint of whiskey.
But… nope. Shit out of luck.
