Five. Only one that’s safe.
Naturally, Dante comes through that one. He turns the corner from the north corridor like he has every right to exist in it.
He isn’t supposed to be here. That’s the first fact.
The second: he looks better than he should. Not well. Not stable. But expensive, polished, handsome in the way damaged men often are when someone has spent a great deal of money making sure the damage reads as charm. Dark hair. Clean jaw. Suit too sharp for a man who smells faintly of mint, tobacco, and something alcoholic trying to hide under both.
His eyes are wrong. That’s the third fact. Too bright. Too hungry. Too pleased to find me alone.
My body knows him before my mind completes the inventory. It stops.
Dante stops, too. For one second, he only looks at me. Then his gaze drops to my stomach. A visible calculation moves across his face before he can discipline it.
I don’t cover myself, though I want to.
“Evie,” he says.
My name hasn’t improved in his mouth. It still sounds borrowed. Worse now, because he thinks history gives him permission to use it.
“Wrong corridor,” I say.
His smile appears slowly. “I was told the north wing was restricted.”
“It is.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“Yes. That does seem to be your greatest talent.”
His smile thins.
My pulse is steady. That’s surprising. My hands don’t shake. Even better. The fabric samples sit against my arm, making us look absurdly domestic, as though we’re about to discuss upholstery instead of the fact that he killed my father and everyone in this house has arranged politeness around that gaping wound.
He steps closer. One pace. I don’t move. My body wants to, but my body is wrong. My body is pregnant and therefore overly invested in continuing to be alive. Valid, but inconvenient.
“You look different,” he says.
I look at him. “That’s your opening?”
His gaze flicks again to my stomach. “A lot different.”
“Yes. Time passed. You remained disappointing.”
A muscle moves in his jaw. There it is. The temper beneath the suit.
My father died because that temper found a gun and a room full of men willing to call murder an accident.
The thought lands so hard, the hallway narrows around me. I breathe once.
“I heard,” he says, lowering his voice, “about the pregnancy.”
“Heard?” I ask. “How quaint. Did the council send a newsletter?”
His eyes sharpen. “Twins.”
The word comes out almost softly. A man like Dante should never say soft things. They don’t become tender in his mouth. They become damp. Slimy.
I shift the fabric samples to my other arm. “Yes,” I say.
