Page 65 of Theirs to Hunt

I’m in the dress Brooks picked. Deep wine, silk that clings, low back. Another gift from the magical closet.

I sip chilled white wine and try to act like this is normal.

We talk about wine. Argue over a steak cut. Laugh when the server fumbles the corkscrew.

We’re not a couple. We’re a triangle. And yet… it fits.

Grayson watches me closely, but not possessively.

Brooks teases, but backs off when I press my knee lightly into his under the table.

Dessert arrives. A confection rich and soft, dipped in bourbon cream. And I realize I haven’t thought about fear once since I sat down.

Just this: the clink of glasses, their attention never splitting, and the strange peace of finally being exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Grayson murmurs something to the staff. They vanish as if they’d never been here.

The lights dim. His hands settle on my hips, firm but unhurried. The velvet beneath me is cool against the backs of my thighs.

The switch, the quiet command in his movement, the ease with which I end up in his lap should startle me. But it doesn’t.

I’m lit from the inside. From the wine. From the warmth in their eyes.

Brooks shifts beside us, leaning forward, amber gaze flicking from my mouth to the pulse at my throat. He takes the spoon from the dessert plate and lifts it to my lips.

“Open,” he says, voice low.

I do.

The bourbon cream melts on my tongue, sweet and sinful, and Brooks watches like he’s memorizing my reaction for later.

His other hand slides beneath the hem of my dress, tracing lazy circles just above my knee. Not pushing. Not rushing. Just anchoring me here.

I could stop this. Say I’m not ready. Reset the whole mood with one word.

But I don’t want to. Not tonight. Not with them.

Grayson’s thumb moves in slow arcs at my waist. He leans in, lips brushing my temple, voice velvet and heat.

“You look good like this,” he murmurs.

“Between us.” I turn my head, meet his eyes.

“You planned this.”

“Of course,” he says, unapologetic. “But only because we knew you’d want it.”

I should argue.

But Brooks feeds me another bite before I can, his fingers brushing my mouth. I chase his thumb with my tongue before I think better of it. The air shifts — heavier, hungrier.

“I’m still not used to this,” I whisper.

Grayson’s hand slides down my thigh, stopping where Brooks’ begins.

“Then we’ll keep doing it until you are.”

Brooks smiles, slow and devastating. “Practice makes perfect, Bambi.”