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“This tastes like regret and cremated flowers.”
I blink. Then snort. Hard.
“That’s because you orderedThe Macabre Macchiato,” I say, “which literally has ‘bitterness and grief foam’ in the description.”
He glances at me, eyes narrowed. “You let me.”
“You insulted the menu with your eyes. I assumed you knew what you were doing.”
“I always know what I’m doing.”
“Mmm.” I tilt my head. “Except, apparently, when it involves baked goods and personal growth.”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest pull. But it’s there.
And maybe it’s not forgiveness. Maybe we’re not healed. But it’s something. A thread. A crack in the armor we both wear like penance.
I break off a piece of the cupcake. The skull crunches between my fingers as I pop the bite into my mouth. It's rich. Decadent. Sinful in a way I haven’t allowed myself to be in weeks.
“You’re really not going to eat yours?” I ask, nodding at his untouched pastry.
Ambrose stares down at it like it’s offering him a second chance he didn’t ask for. “I don’t do sweets.”
“Figures,” I say. “Even your palate is emotionally unavailable.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose, finally looking at me.
It’s not the way he looked at me that night—the night I broke a rule I didn’t know I had. It’s not lust. Not heat.
It’s worse.
It’scareful.
Like he’s remembering not to touch me. Like he’s trying to forget what it felt like to watch me cry in his arms.
I don’t want to be careful.
I want to feel. I lean back, stretch my legs out beneath the table until the toe of my boot brushes against his. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But his fingers tighten around the mug.
The cupcake’s gone now. The frosting lingers on my tongue like something sweeter than this silence deserves. Ambrose is still flicking gazes toward the door every so often like he’s half-daring the world to interrupt us again.
I’m done pretending this is more than it is.
Still, something in me itches tomovethe story forward. To shift the weight sitting between us into something I can actually use. A question. A distraction.
“So,” I say, rolling the paper cup between my palms, “are we still doing the play tonight?”
His eyes sharpen, refocus. “The Council requested it be attended by all representatives.”
“‘Requested,’” I echo. “Is that the new word for mandatory?”
“Mandatory sounds oppressive.” His lips curve slightly. “This is more… theatrical coercion.”
“How charming.”
I arch a brow, but my stomach flips. I’d forgotten that I was supposed tobe seenas something other than bloodline and anomaly. The Council’s public pageants are never just for show. They’re tests. Staged obedience with knives behind the curtains.
I lean back in my chair. “What’s it called?”