Page 7

“My goddess returns bearing offerings,” he gasps, skidding to a stop in front of me like a man discovering fire. “Please tell me there are muffins. Please. I will sacrifice Elias. Or myself. Or Elias again.”

He plants both palms on my shoulders as if steadying me, but his fingers linger. Always. Silas never touches without wanting to be touched back. The charge of it is sharp, kinetic. That dangerous gleam in his eyes dares me to shove him off, just so he has an excuse to wrap around me harder.

“Move, Veyd,” Elias mutters behind me, “before I jam a baguette somewhere unspeakable.”

Silas blinks at him. “Somewhere unspeakableis my brand, babe. Don’t threaten me with foreplay.”

I snort, turning to drop a bag at his feet. “There’s more in the car.”

Silas gasps again. Louder this time. One hand flies to his chest like I’ve told him I’m pregnant with pastry. “More?You’re telling me, wait. Say it slowly. Look me in the eyes and say it like you love me.”

“I don’t love you,” I deadpan.

“Lies,” he whispers reverently, already scooping the bag up and sniffing it like he’s just unearthed ancient treasure. “Is that... is that blueberry? Riven asked for a blueberry. Youbroughtit. You incredible, ruthless creature. He’s going to look at you like you invented the sun again.”

“I did invent the sun,” I reply, brushing past him, “I just got bored and outsourced it.”

Elias trails after me, hands still full of groceries. “Can you two flirtless? It’s like watching two feral cats in heat argue over who gets to be the top.”

Silas turns, walking backward down the hall, box of muffins balanced on one palm. “Jealousy is a sin, Elias. Oh wait,Ialready called dibs.”

“Shut up and go grab the rest,” I call over my shoulder. “Before the milk curdles and Ambrose files a formal complaint.”

“Gods,” Silas groans, pivoting like he’s marching to war. “All I do is serve and suffer. No thanks. No applause. No naked appreciation ceremonies.”

“Try unloading the groceries without dry-humping them, and maybe you’ll get one,” I shout after him.

“That's alieand you know it!”

His voice echoes out the front door and across the wide porch, bleeding into the trees that border the estate like guards who know better than to intervene.

Behind me, Elias sidles up close, muttering under his breath. “One of these days, I’m pushing him into traffic.”

I grin. “He’d turn it into a meet-cute.”

“You’re not wrong,” he sighs, bumping his shoulder into mine.

We turn the corner into the kitchen, big, open, too bright. Caspian already halfway through the imported cheese, leaning against the island in nothing but low-slung jeans and unrepentant, slicing wedges with a paring knife like a seduction tactic.

Home. Built from sin and survival. Held together by chaos, obsession, and whatever twisted version of love we've forged in each other's bones.

The scent hits first, rosemary steeped in heat, stitched through with citrus and something darker, earthier. Not food. Not entirely. More like memory. Like ritual.

Then Orin steps into the kitchen. Effortless. Always. Barefoot, shirt loose over his sculpted frame like the fabric resents the responsibility of hiding anything. He moves like he’s never had to rush a day in his life, because when you’ve existed across centuries, urgency becomes a petty invention.

He’s drying his hands on a linen towel, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins mapping a story I’ve never quite been able to stop tracing with my mouth.

He speaks before anyone else can fill the room with more absurdity.

“Lucien’s with Blackwell,” Orin says, voice low and deliberate, like every word is a stone dropped into still water. “He wants to see you.”

That should be enough. But Orin never says only what’s necessary.

“He didn’t say why.” His gaze slides to me, slow, assessing. Not worried. Not yet. Just aware. “He was… already in Dominion when I passed him.”

That’s not nothing. Lucien doesn’t summon his gift unless something’s pressing, or unless he’s anticipating resistance.

Before I can ask, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my back pocket, thumb tapping the screen, already knowing.