I sigh. Internally calculate how many shifts I'll need atCole'sto pay them both back. Probably all of them. Plus a tip jar miracle. And I doubt Briar Hollow is a big tipping town.
Then Kayden leans casually over the counter, eyes locked on the receptionist like he's conjuring her will from thin air. "Since we're taking your finest suite off your hands, I think champagne is in order."
She nods, dazed. "It will be sent up immediately."
I grab his jacket and pull him back, whispering sharply, "Kayden!"
He shrugs, utterly unbothered. "I didn't kill anyone to get a room. You should be proud."
"Oh yes," I say dryly, stepping into the elevator beside him. "Not killing. You want a star for that?"
"A kiss would do."
I roll my eyes. But underneath the banter, anxiety starts to build.
One bed.
There's only one bed.
The elevator dings, and Kayden strides out like this is his personal suite. Asher falls into step beside me, close but not pressing, like he's guarding my flank.
Kayden swipes the keycard, and the door swings open to reveal a sleek, high-end suite with a king-sized bed… and not much else. No pull-out couch. Not even a cozy little reading chair I could pretend to sleep on.
I stop in the doorway.
"You look like we're walking you to the gallows," Kayden says with a smirk.
"I was just thinking—" I hesitate. What the hell can I say?
That I'm not sure I can sleep next to them without coming undone?
That I'm already too close to falling into something I can't control?
That I'm running from my ex-boss-turned-ex-fiancé-slash-blood-trafficking-satyr and I really don't have the bandwidth for a three-way emotional crisis?
Yeah. Hard pass on that confession.
"If you're not comfortable," Asher says gently, stepping forward, "we can find something else. You can stay here. No pressure."
"No, it's fine—" I cut in too quickly.
He leans in, voice low and steady. "There are no expectations, Sage."
"Yeah," Kayden adds, grin wicked but voice soft. "We can do an innocent little sleepover. Clothes and all."
I narrow my eyes at him, but truth is—I believe his words. He hasn't pushed. Neither has Asher. Even when they could've.
And somehow, that restraint is more dangerous than any demand.
"Yeah, it's all good. I'm just tired. Need a shower."
I drop my bag with more force than necessary, head straight for the bathroom, closing the door with a definitive click behind me, and lock it. Not that it would stop either of them if they wanted to break in. But, sometimes, a locked door says I need space. It says:this shower is mine, and no conservation initiatives are welcome.
I stay in there longer than I need to, steam curling around me.
Three people. One bed.
I shouldn't be wasting time. It's late, and we have to be up early. But I can't quite bring myself to open the door and face the reality of the situation.
