Page 93 of The Obedient Lie

Before I could fall apart. The silence afterward was deafening.

Which I didn’t understand. They were acting as if what Griffin said, insulted them. Though, I supposed he had.

Then Bastion exhaled—one, hard breath like he was trying to keep himself from tearing the room apart. His shoulders rolled back like he needed the stretch to keep from snapping.

Luca’s eyes were still locked on the phone like it had personally offended him.

“Sorry,” I stood, brushing my hands on my thighs, “Youtwo asked for loudspeaker, seriously, you would have had to expect for him to call you two something.” I walked to the bathroom to grab my makeup bag.

Though I noticed Luca expression, as if I had missed something.

Chapter Twenty-Five

BASTION

The music was low and expensive—the kind meant to soothe egos too big to hold, floating beneath the clink of crystal glasses and shallow laughter. A formal party, but just enough looseness in the collarbones to keep the testosterone from snapping. The team had won. The sponsors were here. The alumni. The press. And all the usual predators who wore silk gloves over knife-fingered ambition.

Griffin was here too.

Side-benched.

Still nursing his hand—wrapped, tucked close to his chest like an afterthought. But I knew better.Weknew better.

Luca had broken each of his fingers.

One by one.

Not with a rage fit. Not with chaos.

With precision. Patience.

The kind that only made it worse.

And the bastard had too much pride to tell anyone what really happened. So now he stood in a corner pretending to laugh, drink in his left hand, pretending like his right hadn’t been shattered under Luca’s grip.

I didn’t give a fuck what story he spun.

My eyes weren’t on him.

They were on her.

Emilia stood across the room in a cluster of her cheer squad associates—half-glossed lips, half-rehearsed smiles. She wasn’t trying to shine. Didn’t need to. She was justthere, and somehow that made everything else in the room fade into background noise.

Every now and then, someone from the other team—some heir with a swollen last name and a future empire stitched into his suit jacket—would try to angle closer. Offer a drink. A joke. A compliment she didn’t need.

She didn’t bite.

But she didn’t move away either.

Luca slid in beside me, glass in his hand. Dark button-up open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he hadn’t even tried to make this look formal. People were still hovering around us like gnats—girls in tight dresses, men in cufflinks, old men with dynasty plans disguised as networking.

But unless someone had a Crow crest tattooed across their back?

They weren’t worth the oxygen.

We didn’t make alliances. We didn’tneedto. That was the problem.

Crows were always desired—always dangerous—but the fact we didn’twantto merge? That we didn’t need to marry into anyone’s bloodline to elevate our own?