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I arch a brow and take a slow sip, letting the silence stretch. “Bribery and sarcasm. Impressive. Trying a new strategy?”

He leans against the wall like he’s settling in. “I’ve got layers. You just keep peeling them off with your claws.”

I snort. “Cute. Bet you practiced that one.”

“Only in my head,” he says, tone shifting—sharper now, more pointed. “Must have been absolute torture—no constant flow of coffee for days. Surprised you're still functional.”

I arch a brow, lifting the mug again with deliberate slowness. “You have no idea how close to death you've been keeping me.”

He hums. “Oh, I think I have some idea.”

I set the mug down harder than necessary, the ceramic hitting the table sharply. “Trust me, if coffee withdrawal was my biggest problem, I'd consider myself lucky.”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer with ease. “That's the thing about torture—it’s all about perspective.”

I rise from the bed, closing the distance between us, refusing to back down. “You’re one twisted bastard, you know that?”

He leans forward just enough to make my heart skip, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “That's why we get along so well.”

I growl. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

“You don’t want me quiet, little storm. You want me honest. You just hate that you’re starting to believe me,” he says as he steps back.

I narrow my eyes. “Careful. You’re mistaking my tolerance for trust.”

He tilts his head, just slightly. “No. I’m counting on the fact that you know the difference.”

Before I can respond, he calmly turns away, collects the tray from the table, and leaves without another word.

The quiet doesn’t last.

Maybe an hour passes. Maybe less. I lose track of time staring at the walls like they’re supposed to give me answers. My pulse has finally settled into something approaching normal and my coffee is long gone.

Then the door opens.

Rule steps inside, but there’s something different about his posture—like he’s braced for impact. My phone is in his outstretched hand. Ringing.

Every nerve in my body goes still.

The last time I saw my phone was right before he dropped the bomb. Kingston fucking Reyes. That name has been ringing in my head like a curse ever since. Anger flares like a whipcrack—instant, burning.

But I don’t move.

Not until he reaches me and places it in my hand, slow and precise, like he knows it might explode.

I don’t thank him.

I don’t speak.

My eyes lock on the device. The screen is glowing. Hydessa.

I stare at that screen for exactly one breath. Then I answer.

“Hey, sis,” I say softly, injecting warmth I don’t feel. The words taste wrong. They’re not ours. They’re never ours.

And I know she hears it immediately.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. A beat of silence I feel in my bones.