"Your observation is noted." She puts a piece of lamb in her mouth and chews with exaggerated satisfaction. "Delicious."
"It's tough."
"It's rustic."
Aidan grins. It changes his whole face. He looks younger when he smiles. Less like a man carrying something heavy.
"Where's Matty?" I ask.
William's hand tightens on mine briefly. "Upstairs. Said he wasn't hungry."
"He's been up there all day," Aidan says.
"Leave him." William reaches for his water. "He needs space."
I think about Matty upstairs alone. I don't know him well enough to know if that's normal.
"I want to propose a toast," Aidan says, lifting his glass.
"Don't." William shakes his head.
"I'm proposing a toast."
"To what? We're about to go to war."
"To Raven." Aidan holds the glass higher. "Who decided to cook for us herself when she didn't have to. Who burned the carrots and overcooked the lamb, and it's still the best thing I've eaten in weeks."
Raven's expression softens.
"To Raven," Aidan says.
"To Raven." I raise my water glass.
William picks up his own. Holds it level with ours. He catches my eye across the table, and something passes between us. Small. Private. The kind of thing no one else would notice. Two people drinking water at a table full of wine, and neither of them needing to explain why.
We drink.
The conversation drifts. Aidan tells a story about the first time he tried to cook for Raven, something involving a smoke alarm and a pan of chicken that caught fire. Raven corrects every detail. They argue about whether the chicken was actually on fire or just smoking, and the argument dissolves into laughter that feels foreign in this house. In this life.
I lean into William's shoulder. His arm comes around the back of my chair.
This is what normal looks like. This is what we're fighting for. A table. A bad meal. People who bicker because they love each other and have the luxury of small disagreements.
Footsteps in the corridor.
Heavy. Fast. The kind of footsteps that don't belong in a house where people are eating dinner.
William's arm drops from my chair. He's on his feet before I register the shift, his hand already reaching for the gun I know he keeps at the small of his back.
Aidan stands too. The wine glass is still in his hand. He sets it down carefully.
The door to the dining room opens, and a man fills the frame.
Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Dark hair cropped short. Green eyes that sweep the room in a single pass. He's wearing a coat that's creased from travel, and he looks exhausted.
Jason Murphy.
Two of Aidan's security appear behind him, flanking the doorway. They have their weapons drawn but lowered, angled at the floor, and the uncertainty on their faces is obvious. They know who this man is. They work for Aidan. But this is Jason Murphy, and no one has told them what to do when an exiled brother walks through the front door like he still belongs here.
