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"Avery—" I start, trying to shush her.

"No. Nope." She slices her hand through the air. "Try again. That man is a walking red flag with cheekbones. A Pinterest board of daddy issues wearing Tom Ford. You—" She points at me with her straw, droplets of coffee splattering the table. "You're joking. You have to be joking."

"I'm not," I say, meeting her gaze steadily.

"You disappeared and let me believe you'd been kidnapped and eaten by shadow men, and it turns out you've been shacked up with the literal devil in a suit?"

"I never mentioned a suit," I mutter, taking a long sip of my drink.

"You. Shh. It's Beckett Sinclair. He invented suits. Probably emerged from the womb wearing a three-piece Armani."

I try not to smile at the absurd image of him walking around in those soft gray pajama pants, shirtless. "He hasn't worn one in a while, actually."

Avery's jaw drops. Her eyes widen. She leans across the table so far I can see the gold flecks in her irises.

"Oh my God. You're sleeping with him."

"Avery."

"No. You are. You're sleeping with him. Like. More than just the Hunt." Her voice rises with each word. "What, does he have you on a leash now, too?"

I don't answer. My fingers unconsciously rise to the velvet at my throat.

And that's answer enough.

Her eyes widen further, following the movement of my hand.

"Oh my God. Luna." She breathes my name like a prayer for the damned. "What have you done?"

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under the weight of her scrutiny. The collar feels tighter somehow, as if responding to her attention.

"I didn't plan this," I say quickly, quietly, voice low in case anyone at the neighboring tables is still eavesdropping after her outburst. "It just... happened."

She blinks at me like I've grown a second head. "It just happened," she repeats, voice flat with disbelief. "Because whodoesn't accidentally get claimed by Beckett-fucking-Sinclair? People trip and fall into coffee dates all the time, not the bed of the most terrifying billionaire in the northern hemisphere."

"I didn't know it was him when it happened," I explain, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears. "The masks, remember?"

Her hand flies up dramatically. "Okay, back it up. Reverse. Go to the part where you were in a room full of masked, elite, power-hungry psychopaths and didn't recognize Beckett Sinclair. The man whose face is on the cover of every business magazine. The man whose name makes CEOs piss themselves."

"I wasn't exactly staring at faces," I mutter, remembering instead the pressure of his hands, the weight of his gaze, the certainty with which he claimed me before I even knew what was happening.

"You weren't exactly running either," she counters, eyes narrowing.

My fingers twist the napkin in my lap. "I was trying to! But he wouldn't let me go!"

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again, but no sound comes out. She looks like a fish gasping for water.

"Oh my God," she whispers finally, slumping back in her chair.

I don't speak. There's nothing left to say that won't sound like a lie or an excuse.

My entire plan had failed miserably, and owning up to it on my own is one thing, but telling my best friend I royally fucked up is a totally different ballgame.

The silence stretches between us, filled with the ambient noise of the cafe and the unspoken questions hanging in the air. Finally, she leans forward again, eyes sharp but voice softer.

"Okay. Fine. You're not dead. You're not locked in abasement. You're clearly still functioning as a semi-normal human. So what's it like?"

"What?" I ask, thrown by the question.