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“That’s unfair. I amexceptionallysmooth.” He points at me with exaggerated flair. “You’re just flustered.”
“Elias.”
“Admit it. You're turned on.”
“You’re lucky I don’t set you on fire.”
“I mean, if that’s your thing—”
I slam my hand over his mouth. “Stop talking.”
His eyes gleam over my fingers. Smug. Satisfied. Bastard.
He kisses my palm.
I yank my hand back like he’s bitten me—and maybe he has, in his own way. I’m hot, dizzy, completely off-kilter, and he’s sitting there like a smug disaster wrapped in sin and soft silver hair.
And Idowant him. Gods, I want him more than I can say. But I also want to strangle him.
He shrugs. “Guess that’s a no to under the table.”
"You werethisclose to being sexy," I say, holding my fingers apart by an inch, squinting through the ale-laced fog of disappointment. I sigh—loudly, dramatically—because if Elias is going to ruin a moment, I’m going to at least make him suffer through my critique. “And then you opened your pretty little mouth.”
Elias raises a brow like he’s proud of that failure. Smirking like he didn’t just shatter the sharp, heated rhythm we had going with that ridiculous offer. His silver hair catches the firelight, casting shadows over those sharp cheekbones, those god-tier lashes, and the mouth that should be outlawed. Andhe knows it.
He leans forward, propping his chin in his hand, all sleepy menace and shameless delight. “You say ‘pretty’ like it’s a curse.”
“Itis,” I mutter, snatching his tankard and taking a swig because I’m going to need it. “You’re like a weaponized himbo. You sneak up on me with actual charm, make me think you might behave like an adult, and then—bam—full regression.”
He pretends to look wounded. “Wow.Weaponized himbo? That’s a slur in some realms.”
“You’re not even trying to deny it.”
“Why would I? You’re into it. Admit it.”
I tilt my head. “I was into it. Past tense. That ship has sunk. Heroically. In flames.”
Elias grins, wide and crooked, like helivesfor being dragged and is already plotting his next disaster. His fingers graze mine like he hasn’t been completely eviscerated just now. He doesn’t even look at me when he links our hands again, doesn’t acknowledge it, just keeps that grin trained ahead like it’s nothing.
But it is something.
It always is, with him.
We fall into a quiet lull, the kind that simmers rather than stills. Around us, the tavern pulses—boots on floorboards, tankards slamming, someone yelling in a dialect I barely recognize. The Fangs Tooth feels like it’s been ripped out of time. The clothes, the manners, the way the women at the bar laugh like they’re about to eat someone alive. A place that exists outside of consequence, where Sins are remembered by name and feared just enough to be served first.
But it’s Elias who pulls me back in, always him. He shifts closer, leans so his mouth brushes my ear when he speaks, his voice low and lazy.
“Yousureyou’re not taking me upstairs tonight?”
I glance at him sidelong, lips twitching. “You’re about to take yourself outside if you don’t shut up.”
His smile turns feral. “Promises, promises.”
In all honesty, Idowant to go upstairs with him.
The problem isn’t desire—it never has been. It’s the way Silas keeps glancing between us like he’s already halfway through drafting a song about it. It’s Riven’s gaze burning from across the room, unreadable butknowing. And Orin, quiet but ever-watching, would never say a word—but I’d feel it. The shift in the air. The change in proximity. The echo of absence where I used to be.
And Lucien… gods, Lucien would look at me like I’ve confirmed his worst fear. That I’m choosing favorites. That I’ll unravel the whole fucking structure of us for a few stolen hours in Elias’s bed.