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But I stay seated.

Still.

Burning.

Because I don’t know what pisses me off more—the fact that Keira finally stopped messaging…Or the fact that Luna did exactly what she promised. And somehow, that makes her more dangerous than anyone I’ve ever known.

I swipe through the photos with one hand and try to ignore the way my pulse has become a war drum in my throat. The screen glows with her—bare skin, parted lips, eyes half-lidded like she’s seconds from sin or salvation, and I’m not sure which one I’d rather have from her. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe I just want her undone.

And now she’s pulling on her fucking clothes.

The hem of her shirt slips over her ribs and I sit up straighter, breath sharp. I watch. Watch the muscles in her stomach flex as she drags the fabric over her head. The shadows betweenher thighs as she shimmies into her shorts. She moves with the same casual cruelty she uses in her voice. Like I’m not here. Like I’m not hard and burning and seconds from acting like I’m not supposed to care.

But I do.

And that’s the problem.

“You’re leaving?” I ask, voice low, but not soft. Never soft. I’ve honed my tone into a weapon too many times to dull it now.

She looks at me over her shoulder, hair a mess from my hands. Her lips are flushed. She’s still marked from our last round—my grip on her hips, my teeth on her neck. A perfect mess. My mess.

“Wasn’t planning on staying for dinner,” she says. “Unless you’re about to offer something worth sitting for.”

The smirk she throws me is almost enough to push me over the edge. I rise from the bed slowly, deliberately. Let her watch every movement. I’m not subtle about it. She made the rules. Sex on demand. No strings. No confusion. I’m holding her to it.

My fingers trail the edge of my phone before I toss it to the mattress. “What I want,” I say as I close the distance between us, “is for you to stop dressing like we’re finished.”

She blinks once. Then again. Slowly. Deliberately. But she doesn’t move.

“So undress me.”

It’s not a challenge. It’s permission.

My hands are on her before the last syllable leaves her mouth. Her shirt is the first casualty—dragged over her head and discarded. My mouth finds her collarbone, the curve of her neck, that pulse that hammers against my lips when I graze her there. She’s always warm. Always responsive. She makes the kind of sounds that would ruin a lesser man, and I want them all tonight.

My hands trail down her back, her hips, gripping tight enough she gasps. Her shorts come next, peeled down slowly, like I’msavoring the meal I didn’t realize I’d been starving for. She steps out of them and into me, and for a second—just a second—she looks up like she’s waiting for something more.

I kiss her then. Hard. Greedy. Not because I need her to feel it. But because I need tofeelsomething. And she’s the only thing that works anymore.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails biting skin, and I smile against her mouth. The deal was clear. She’s mine when I want her.

And right now?

I want her.

Silas

Elias is lounging on the couch like he’s some fallen deity of sarcasm, one leg draped over the arm, fingers tapping like he’s composing the next great novel of petty warfare. My phone buzzes in my lap. Group chat. I already know it’s him. That cocky bastard's screen name flashes up—BigMeatEnergy—because of course it is.

BigMeatEnergy: you couldn’t even beat me in a thumb war, Waffles4LIFE. stay in your cereal lane.

I choke on my soda, laughing. That’s it. He wants to go? We’re going. I shift on the beanbag, crack my neck, and type back furiously.

Waffles4LIFE: i’d win a thumb warandsteal your girl mid-match. check your priorities, King of Cowardice™

BigMeatEnergy: bold talk from a man who once got locked in a pantry for three hours and cried when he ran out of pop tarts.

Waffles4LIFE: it was strategic meditation. iascendedin that pantry.