Ayla sits on the edge of the marble island. Her hair’s got that purple threaded through it, catching light when she moves and I can’t get over it. She stabs a slice with her fork and takes a bite, her eyes fluttering close.
A smear of cream catches at the corner of her mouth, her tongue peeks out to lick it clean.
My eyes track it before I can stop them.
My coffee black stays untouched. I keep my face blank. I keep my hands still, even when my body wants to pull her closer just to wipe that cream off her lips myself.
Vaska leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching her eat like it’s theater.
She glances between us, casual. Too casual. “Why don’t you live here?” she asks, like she’s commenting on the weather. “This place is ridiculous. Marble, chandeliers, enough rooms to hide a small army.” She gestures around with the fork. “I think we should live here.”
We.
The word lands clean and sharp between my ribs.
My grip tightens on the mug until the ceramic complains.
She doesn’t seem to notice what she just did. Or she does, and she’s brave enough not to care. Either way, it makes something hot and stupid crawl up the back of my neck.
I don’t answer.
She slides off the island, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and walks out. “Bathroom,” she mutters.
Her boots stomp on the marble. A small sound that shouldn’t feel like relief. The door clicks down the hall.
Vaska turns to me immediately.
“She’s right,” he says, like he’s discussing inventory. “You should be ruling from here. The family seat. Secure. Sends the message.”
“Drop it.”
He doesn’t. He watches the hallway, then looks at me like he’s aiming for a soft spot. “You let her saywewithout correcting her.”
I don’t look at him.
I stare at the doorway she disappeared through, like I can will her back before he keeps talking.
Then the thought hits me, stupid, small, human, and my mouth moves before I can kill it.
“Ask her what her favorite flower is.”
Silence. Vaska blinks, slow. “What?”
“You heard me.”
His mouth twitches like he’s deciding whether to laugh. “Why the hell don’t you ask her yourself?”
Because I don’t ask questions like that. Because it means I’m paying attention in ways I shouldn’t.
Because I already told her she’s mine and I don’t know what to do with the parts of me that want more than possession.
I don’t say any of that.
“Ask her,” I repeat, stern.
Vaska’s expression turns into a grin I want to break.
“Is that an order?”
