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I grin. “Still so brave. Still pretending this isn’t all your fault.”

“I didn’t ask to be dragged here.”

“No. But you want to spy on us. You thought recording me, filming the inside of a Reaper party was a good idea. What was the plan, huh? Post it all online? Call the cops? Daddy swoops in and saves the day?”

Her jaw tightens.

I step closer. “You’re lucky it was me who found that equipment. Anyone else would’ve done worse.”

She glares up at me. “You are not some savior, Caleb. You’re sick.”

My smile fades. “And yet your pussy is wet with one glance.”

I reach into my jacket, pull out the recorder she tried to hide in her bag, and hold it up.

“Evidence,” I say. “That’s what this was about?”

“I wanted the truth.”

“Well. Now you have it.”

I pocket the device again and tilt my head. “Welcome to the Reapers, Sienna. Membership’s a bitch.”

The space smells like cedar and old leather. Clean. Untouched for weeks.

Eli could choke on vomit or some shit, so I decide to drag his dead weight onto the sofa in the living room. He groans but doesn’t wake. One arm flops off the side. I check his pulse with two fingers just to be sure. Still there, slow and steady. Good enough.

I make my way into the kitchen. The fridge hums to life when I open it, and a half-used package of ribeye sits exactly where I left it last time. Some garlic. Butter. Salt. That’s all I need. I pull a cast iron from the drawer, set it on the stove, and click the burner on.

Sienna lingers by the counter, eyes bouncing between the hallway and Eli’s unconscious body like she’s planning an escape..

“You’re cooking?” she asks, arms crossed again, like that’s going to protect her from anything.

“You prefer I starve?” I tear open the steak pack and slap one down into the pan, the sizzle filling the room.

“You just… knocked out your teammate and kidnapped me. And now you’re making steak.”

“I’m hungry.”

She doesn’t answer. Just huffs and moves to the freezer. She rummages through the drawers, pulls out a small bag of frozen peas.

“What’s that for?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

She shoots me a glare. “You slapped me, asshole.”

That makes me grin. Not because it’s funny. Because she says it like I should feel bad.

“You’ll live.”

She presses the peas to her cheek, lips tight. Her reflection in the microwave window is sharp, full of resentment and something hotter underneath. I flip the steak, watching the fat crackle, and throw in a chunk of butter and a few smashed cloves of garlic. The smell fills the kitchen, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“You really thought it was smart to show up at that party?” I ask without turning.

“I didn’t show up for you.”

“No? What then?” I look at her. “What possessed you to sneak back into the lion’s den after last time?”

She says nothing. Just watches me.