Good enough.
More than good enough, actually.
I look like a dancer.
A real dancer.
Not a killer pretending to be an artist, but an artist who happens to be deadly.
The distinction matters.
To me, at least.
I skip down the stairs—actual skipping, because apparently orgasms give me excess energy despite the physical exhaustion—my feet barely touching each step as I descend toward the main floor.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Counting the steps.
Always counting.
The foyer is massive—all marble floors and vaulted ceilings and the particular kind of elegance that comes from having unlimited funds and excellent taste. But I barely see it anymore. Two weeks of living here has made even the excessive wealth feel normal.
Through the tall windows, I can see the G-Wagon waiting in the circular driveway.
And my pack.
All four of them.
Arranged around the vehicle like some kind of magazine photoshoot for "Hot Alphas Who Definitely Aren't Criminals Monthly."
Blaze is leaning against the hood, golden hair catching the afternoon sun, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Jett stands near the driver's side door, arms crossed, his teal-blue hair styled back from his face. Kai is checking his phone—probably still dealing with business even now—his dark red hair perfectly arranged despite our recent activities.
And Sage...
Sage is pouting.
Actually pouting.
His lower lip pushed out, green-gold eyes fixed on me as I emerge from the house, the expression so exaggerated it makes me giggle before I even reach them.
"What's wrong with you?" I ask, crossing the driveway with my dance bag slung over one shoulder.
"I should have had another round," he complains, reaching for me as soon as I'm within arm's length.
The giggle becomes a full laugh—bright and unhinged and absolutely inappropriate for the statement.
"That would be five rounds," I point out, letting him pull me close. "And five is bad luck. Odd number. Unbalanced. Completely unacceptable."
"So you're making me wait until the ride home."
"Exactly."
His expression shifts—the pout transforming into something sharper, more dangerous. The smile that curves his lips is the one I've learned to associate with violence and satisfaction andthe particular kind of pleasure that comes from eliminating threats.
He takes my hand—gentle, reverent, treating me like something precious—and leads me toward the vehicle.
