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Ava

The jet door opens, and the icy-cold Wyoming air rushes in. I step out onto the stairs behind Damian, my boots hitting the metal as I descend into the dark. The tarmac is empty except for a black SUV idling nearby, its headlights cutting through the night. Beyond it, the land stretches wide and untamed—rolling fields covered in snow and shadowed mountains rising in the distance.

Damian glances back at me, and I hesitate on the last step. “No wandering, tonight. You don’t leave my side.”

I lift my chin. “I don’t plan to. I’m not comfortable around murderers.”

His lips twitch. “You’re with one now.”

I blink. My God, he’s right.

I’m with a murderer every day. I talk about books with a murderer. I kiss and play with a murderer.

But I’ve learned that it’s not that simple. Yes, Damian is morally corrupt for what he does. But he’s also a victim ofcircumstances, and it’s difficult to reconcile those two facts when I’m so accustomed to clean lines between right and wrong.

The driver is already out of the SUV, opening the door for us. Damian doesn’t move to get in yet. His eyes find mine. His are unreadable in the dim light. “My dad and Gabriel Wolfe will talk openly about the organization. They won’t censor themselves because they don’t see you as significant.”

My stomach tightens. He’s said this before. They either think I’m going to die or be taken away.

“They trust me to keep you in line,” he continues, “so don’t let anything they say get to you. Keep your head down. Seem submissive. Meek.”

I cross my arms, pulse kicking up.

“It’s one night, Ava.” His tone is soft.

I freeze, breath catching as he tilts my chin up. His thumbs press lightly against my jaw, holding me still. And then—before I can decide whether to pull away or push him off—his lips are on mine.

It’s slow, deliberate, meant to soothe the fire he just stoked. He pulls back just enough to speak against my lips. “Behave.”

He lets go, turns, and slides into the SUV. I stand there for a moment, my breathing uneven.

What would it mean to fall in love with a murderer?

The old me would have assumed it made me culpable for his deeds, and maybe that’s true.

But what if—as Damian has said—I really do have power over him? A utilitarian perspective would say I should use that power for good.

Or maybe I’m just deluding myself because I’ve already fallen.

“Damian,” Lucas Cross says from across the dinner table, “what do you think of Rob’s recent foray into politics?”

His tone is casual, but there’s something coiled beneath it. From what I’ve seen in Damian’s father for the past hour, every question seems like some kind of test. One you don’t realize you’ve failed until much later.

“He’s doing his best.” Damian takes a sip of his wine. “With what he has.”

I grip my own wineglass tighter. It’s the only thing I can do to keep myself from fidgeting, from shifting in my chair under the weight of the evening.

Since stepping into this house, I’ve been ignored. Not with rudeness—just dismissed, like an object in the background. These men don’t see me. I’m insignificant, exactly like Damian said I would be.

That should make it feel safer. But it doesn’t.

The crazy thing is that Damian’s mother doesn’t seem to be treated any better. She sits across the dining room table with perfect poise. She’s been kind to me in the way that silent women often are—offering a warm look here, a small nod there. But she hasn’t spoken much. She doesn’t interfere.

“Yes,” Gabriel says. “His best. Making an ass of himself. Imagine the cleanup we’d have to do if he ever ascended. He was just as much of a worm during his time at Ashford.”

That catches my attention. An Ashford alum named Rob? Who’s now entering politics?

“Are you talking about Robert Leland Vaughn?” I ask. “One of the richest men in the world?”