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Kingston. Huxley.

The names snarl in my head, none of them fitting, all of them too fucking real. I’ve known them separately for years. Bodhi—the cocky operator, slipping in and out of my missions at the Organization, always lurking at the edges like smoke. Matteo—the one who sat beside me almost every goddamn day. The steady hand in the middle of the chaos. The one who stayed late sometimes at the office after missions, buying me shitty vending machine coffee when the world got too heavy.

And now— Ruin and Rule. Masks. Violence. Obsession.

I’ve never known them as Kingston and Huxley. And maybe that’s why it’s almost easy to shove those names aside. To pretend the weight of their bloodlines aren't bleeding out all over my skin.

Because standing here now—watching them—those names mean nothing.

They’re just...them.

Two men from two parts of my life that were never supposed to meet. Never supposed to fit together like this—quiet, casual, comfortable.

Talking like they didn't just rip my world apart with their bare hands.

The smell of coffee hooks into me before anything else.

Rich. Sharp. Exactly how I take it.

There’s a plate on the coffee table. Pastries. Cherry cream cheese.

Of course.

Rule doesn’t even glance back when he speaks, but his voice slides across the room like a hand around my throat. "They’re still warm, princess."

I freeze.

Fingers tightening in the hem of my tank. Breath snagging somewhere too deep to pull free.

I don’t know what the hell to call them in my head anymore. I don’t know how to step into this room without feeling like I’m walking into a war I’ve already lost.

But the coffee smells good.

And I’m not the kind of girl who runs from a battlefield.

Not even one I never had a chance of winning.

So I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and step forward.

Because if they think I’m going to crumble now—if they think for one second I’ll break easier just because they finally ripped their masks off—they don’t fucking know me at all.

I cross the room, the smell of coffee thick in the air, the pastries still steaming slightly on the plate. They don't move as I approach, just glance at me with a casual, almost lazy awareness that I still feel like a physical touch.

I grab the coffee first—priorities—and take a long sip, letting the bitter heat burn its way down my throat. Exactly the way I like it.

I don’t sit right away. I stand for a moment by the edge of the coffee table, mug in hand, staring at the two men sprawled across the black velvet couch like they own the fucking air in the room.

Maybe they do.

Ruin is in his usual position, forearms resting on his knees, his head tipped slightly to the side like he’s trying to read my mind. Rule sits straighter, arms thrown over the back of the couch, looking at me like he’s already plotting ten moves ahead. The masks are now gone. The names are stripped away. Only the bones are left:Bodhi. Matteo. Obsession.

And me? I’m the battlefield they bled for.

The plate of pastries sits between us like a peace offering. Cherry cream cheese, just like he promised. They even glazed them a little heavier this time. I should laugh. I should throw the fucking plate at them. Instead, I pick one up, break off a piece, and pop it into my mouth.

It’s good. Too good. A decadent little betrayal of my own anger. Of course they’d know how to weaponize pastry against me.

I chew slowly, eyes never leaving theirs, feeling the heat of their gazes burn hotter with every second of silence I let stretch between us.