Page 58

Only two people are allowed into my penthouse without needing permission, and only one has the decency to knock likehe's pretending to wait. I don't bother calling out though, he'll enter anyway.

Sebastian strolls in, having shed his customary suit for black jeans and a henley pushed to his elbows. The Rolex on his wrist catches the light as he drags a chair from against the wall and drops into it with the ease of someone who's been here a thousand times before.

He doesn't speak at first, looks at me, one ankle resting casually over the opposite knee, like he's not sitting in the epicenter of a storm I haven't figured out how to contain.

"You look like shit," he finally says, breaking the silence.

I glance at him with a half-hearted smirk. "Good to see you, too."

"You sleep at all?"

"Define sleep."

Sebastian studies me, then flicks his gaze toward the surveillance feed looping on my monitor—Luna's studio frozen on screen, empty now, the canvas still wet from her last session.

His mouth twitches in that way it does when he knows exactly how deep the blade has gone. "You've got cameras on her at all times, a tracker in the damn necklace, and you still stand in the hallway to watch her paint."

"Don't make me regret divulging that small piece of information."

He leans forward slightly. "Call it what it is, Beck."

I don't flinch, because I've been waiting for someone to say it out loud.

"She's different," I admit quietly.

Sebastian snorts, leaning back in his chair. "No shit, she's different. She's not even supposed to be here."

"I know that."

"She's not your type."

"I know that too."

"You've had a hundred women who would've begged for that collar."

I look him dead in the eye. "I didn't want them."

The words come too fast, too sharp, and Sebastian's expression shifts from amusement to something more calculating. He's trying to decide how much more truth I'm willing to bleed.

"You hear what's been happening at the Club?" he asks, voice dropping lower.

I turn back to the screen, muscles tightening along my jaw. "What?"

"The Collectors are talking about convening an arbitration panel." Sebastian watches me carefully for a reaction. "About you."

My eyes snap back to his. "On what grounds?"

"You didn't disclose that the woman you claimed was missing an anklet. They're calling it a betrayal of the code." He drums his fingers thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. "A violation of your duty to the Club."

"That's bullshit."

"Maybe. But they don't see it that way." Sebastian leans forward, arms braced on his knees, eyes locking with mine. The casual air is gone now, replaced with the kind of quiet intensity that says he's not here for pleasantries. He's here for blood, or truth—whichever I'm willing to give first.

"You need to think this through," he says, voice low but firm. "This isn't just about breaking rules, Beckett. It's about the principle."

"I'm not afraid of them."

"Maybe you should be."