Unmistakably Kai.
The door opens before anyone can answer, and Kai fills the doorway like he owns it—which, technically, he does.
His dark gold eyes sweep the room, taking in the scene we present—me standing on shaky legs between Blaze and Jett, all of us thoroughly disheveled, the scent of sex absolutely saturating the air.
"Are you guys done rubbing it in while I take business calls and keep this empire afloat?"
The words come out dry.
Irritated.
But I can see the heat behind them—the desire he's been suppressing while handling whatever legitimate business dealings the Lawson empire requires now that his father is dead and investigators are sniffing around the circumstances.
Blaze laughs—bright and utterly unrepentant.
"Stop being grumpy," he says, releasing his hold on me to gesture at the space around us. "No grumpy men are allowed in the new nest space."
New nest space.
The words make me smile despite my exhaustion, and I take a moment to really look at what we've created here.
The room is massive—easily twice the size of my quarters at Ruthless, with vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with natural light. The walls are painted a soft blush pink—Kai's choice, though he'd never admit it—and the floor is covered in plush carpet that's perfect for barefoot dancing.
Shirts are everywhere, like I noticed earlier.
But not just shirts.
There are hoodies draped over chairs—Jett's mostly, because he runs cold. Sage's collection of soft cardigans hanging in the open closet. Blaze's performance costumes from his circus days displayed on mannequins like art pieces. And Kai's ties—silk and expensive—coiled in a basket near the bed like sleeping snakes.
My costumes occupy the east wall.
The audition piece on its mannequin, surrounded by newer acquisitions. Practice clothes folded neatly in cubbies. Performance pieces for upcoming showcases at Juilliard, each one more elaborate than the last because apparently Martinez wasn't kidding about the scholarship covering materials.
The aerial ring dominates the center of the room—professional grade, properly installed, with crash mats arranged beneath for safety even though I rarely use them.
My blades are mounted above the bed—crossed like a coat of arms, polished to a mirror shine.
The same blades Kai used to kill his father two weeks ago.
The same blades that were covered in elder Lawson's blood while investigators swarmed the warehouse, asking questions and filing reports and ultimately concluding that Kai couldn't possibly be involved.
After all—the official story goes—he was with his newly bonded Omega that day.
They have witnesses.
Time-stamped security footage from the boutique where we were shopping for my costume.
Phone records showing Kai taking business calls from locations nowhere near the warehouse.
And a performance hall full of people who saw me on stage while the explosion happened.
The perfect alibi.
Meticulously constructed.
Absolutely airtight.
To think investigators were more excited to announce the death of the elder Lawson—a known criminal figure, though they could never prove it—than they were to solve the murder.
