Page 6

I let the door slam behind me as I step out of the car. Gravel crunches under my boots, the kind Riven laced up this morning with a quiet kiss to the inside of my thigh.

“Hey,” Elias calls out, voice pitched too high, then clears his throat like he didn’t just sound like a teenage boy caught watching porn with the volume up.

“You’ve been standing out here since I left, haven’t you?” I ask, lifting the trunk.

“No,” he lies. Immediately. Horribly. “I came out for fresh air. And sunlight. Vitamin D, baby. Gotta keep my skin luminous. I’m aging gracefully.”

“You don’t age,” I remind him.

“Well,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “still gotta maintain myaesthetic.”

“You mean ‘snarky chic’?”

“Listen,” he huffs, taking two bags out of my arms before I can protest, “just because I dress like a cursed Twitch streamer doesn’t mean I don’t have layers.”

He smells like rain and sugar. Like too many hours spent baking with Silas for no reason except to see if I’ll eat the batter off his fingers.

“Speaking of layers,” he says, voice dropping an octave in that way hethinksis seductive, “are you... wearing that for me?”

I blink at him. Look down. I’m in leggings, a sweatshirt, and no bra.

He swallows hard. “Yeah. Damn. That’s illegal, right? Is it illegal to be this... uh... distracting while carrying groceries?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “But you like that about me.”

We pass through the front door, into the warmth of home. The entryway smells like something sweet and herbal, probably Orin’s tea steeping in the background of chaos. From the far room, there’s a screech of laughter, something breaking, and the soft echo of Silas shouting,“IT WASN’T ME, technically!”

Elias catches my eye. “Want me to hide your muffins so Silas spirals?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Temptation’s my whole personality, babe.”

“You’re Sloth.”

“Exactly. I put theslowin slow burn.”

“You’re not a slow burn.”

He stops walking, turns to me with that cocky tilt to his smile, except this one’s softer around the edges. Like it wants to be real.

“I know,” he says. “I’m a full-bodycringefireball of shame.”

And still, I let him linger closer than I should. Because every time he reaches for me like this, with a joke instead of a demand, with too-long glances and hands that never quite settle, I remember how dangerous desire can be when it wears a grin.

He leans in like he might kiss me. But before anything touches, Caspian shouts from the kitchen:

“If you two are done dry-humping in the foyer, there’s a cheese emergency in here and I’m about to commit dairy crimes!”

Elias sighs. “Cockblocked by Lust. Again.”

“Story of your life,” I murmur, brushing past him with the last of the groceries and stepping straight into the storm we built together.

Because this house isn’t quiet. It’s a crucible. And every second inside it is temptation clawing toward revelation.

The hallway barely has time to register me before Silas barrels into it like a meteor aimed at my soul. He rounds the corner in socks and sin, knees bent, arms flailing like a cartoon demon trying to land a triple axel. The floorboards groan beneath him, and he slides the last few feet with an over-the-top flourish, arms wide, chest puffed, that irredeemable grin already locked in place.