Adrian stands at the fireplace with his arms crossed, his knuckles white on the mantel. Declan paces the length of the sofa, phone in hand, his shoulders tight enough to snap. Clara and Talia sit on the couch. Clara has one hand curled around Talia’s forearm, and Talia sits upright, hands in her lap, spine straight.
Genny stays beside me at the window. The glass overlooks the front yard, the street, the approach. I can see the driveway from here. I can see who leaves and who comes back.
“Any idea what this is?” I ask.
“Something about the Whisperer,” Genny says. “And Gio.”
“That tracks.”
Declan paces the same twelve feet over and over. Turn, twelve feet, turn. Clara watches him with one hand still wrapped around Talia’s arm.
Dante and Cole haven’t moved from the entrance.
Their stillness hits the room harder now that the crowd is gone. Declan’s pacing slows. Adrian’s weight shifts toward the doorframe. My fingers tighten against the windowsill before I tell them to.
Dante’s eyes sweep the room. Fireplace, sofa, window, staircase, front door. Adrian, Declan, Clara, Talia, Genny.
Then me.
His gaze stops for half a second. Less. Long enough for my pulse to trip once before he moves on.
Three weeks ago, he was between my legs—his mouth, his hands, the piercings, the scrape of his rings against my thigh, the rough sound he made when my fingers twisted in his hair.
His gaze moves on. The scan completes. At his side, two fingers brush the back of Cole’s wrist. Barely visible. Cole’s chin dips a fraction. I catch it from across the room.
Cole.
His mouth was on me five days ago on the couch six feet from where Talia is sitting. Cole, who saidI’ve got you, felt me flinch beneath him, apologized against my skin, and waited until my hips lifted for him again.
I’m standing by the window with Genny. Dante and Cole are in the doorframe. The room is between us.
Genny glances at me. I keep my eyes on the staircase.
A door opens upstairs.
Every head in the living room turns.
Zoë appears on the landing first, her shoulders pulled tight under the clean line of her shirt. Gio follows behind her, hair wrecked, eyes haunted, jacket pulled wrong across one shoulder like he’s been dragged through his own skin.
They come down together with six inches between them. Zoë angles toward him when they reach the bottom step, and Gio’s hand hovers two inches from her spine before he catches himself and drops it.
When attention cuts to Declan, Zoë shifts toward Gio.
For weeks, they’ve kept whatever this is neat in public. Gio’s hand remembers her before he lets it fall, and Zoë leans toward him when she thinks no one is counting inches.
Zoë steps into the center of the living room.
“Sit down,” she says to everyone.
People sit. I stay standing. So does Genny, both of us still at the window.
Dante and Cole stay in the doorframe.
Zoë stands in the center of the room. Gio is beside her, slightly behind. His hands are in his pockets. The muscle in his jaw ticks hard. Zoë shifts half a step back without looking at him, cutting off his retreat before he can take it.
Zoë turns her head just enough for him to hear her.
“You wanted to burn the house down?” she says, low. “This is your strike team. Step up.”
