Gray
Mrs. Kingsley announces dinner, and we all drift toward the dining room like debris caught in a current. I make my move to secure the seat next to Wyatt, already envisioning how I could shield him from the ex-girlfriend ambush, but Monica materializes at my elbow with a firm hand on my arm. “Mr. Holt, we have place cards. You’re over here, across from Wyatt.” She gestures to the opposite side of the table, where a small white card bearing my name sits next to Daniela’s. I glance at Wyatt, who looks like he’s been struck by lightning as he realizes what’s happening: his mother has reserved the seat next to him for Alyssa.
“Mom,” Wyatt starts, “I’d rather not—”
“Nonsense, darling. Family traditions matter. You always sit in your spot.” Monica’s tone leaves no room for argument as she guides Alyssa to the chair beside Wyatt’s. The girl slides into it, all doe eyes and rehearsed contrition. The way she leans toward him, angling her body to create an intimate bubble despite the formal setting, makes my jaw clench.
I take my assigned seat, keeping my expression neutral despite the rage building in my chest. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the conversation with Mr. Kingsley and Daniela from minutes ago still lingers. But that’s a problem for later. Right now, my focus is entirely on what’s happening across fromme: Wyatt sitting rigid as Alyssa leans into his personal space, murmuring something that makes his expression shutter closed.
Mr. Kingsley takes his seat at the head of the table, with Mrs. Kingsley at the opposite end. Mr. Palmer sits next to Daniela, and Mrs. Palmer takes the seat across from him, next to her daughter. The staff appears with the first course, a bougie arrangement of raw fish and microgreens.
“So, Mr. Holt,” Thomas Palmer booms over Daniela, “I understand you were military before private security?”
I nod, stabbing a piece of fish. “Yes, sir. Three tours.”
“Fascinating. My nephew considered enlisting, but ultimately went to Dartmouth. Smart boy.” He chuckles, expecting me to agree that avoiding service was the intelligent choice.
“Not everyone’s suited for it,” I say flatly, my eyes drifting back to Wyatt.
Alyssa has positioned herself so her shoulder brushes his with every movement. “You’re thinner,” she says to him, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”
The question drips with concern, but it’s all performance, primarily directed at her parents and his.
Daniela nudges me under the table, a silent signal to engage with the conversation around me. I force my attention back to the Palmers, offering clipped responses to their questions about security work. But my awareness remains locked on Wyatt, like a compass needle finding north.
Because something has shifted between us. At Apex, I saw a side of him I can’t unsee. The way he yielded to my commands, the perfect surrender in his eyes, the trust when he let me care for him afterward. Those moments carved something primal inme. A sense of ownership I have no right to feel but can’t shake loose.
Wyatt Kingsley is mine.
Not in any official capacity, not in any way that would make sense to the people around this table, but in the ways that matter between two men who’ve seen each other stripped of pretense.
And right now, someone else is touching what’s mine.
Alyssa places her hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, fingers curling. My grip tightens around my fork until the metal bites into my palm. I imagine walking around the table, peeling her hand away, backing her into a corner with nothing but a look that tells her to stay the fuck away from him. It’s an absurd fantasy, unprofessional and inappropriate, but the image burns bright in my mind.
“Mr. Holt, are you feeling all right?” Monica’s voice cuts through my violent thoughts. “You look a bit pale.”
I blink, forcing my expression to soften. “Just a slight headache, ma’am. Nothing serious.”
“How strange!” She turns to her son. “Wyatt was just saying the same thing earlier. Weren’t you, darling?”
Wyatt’s eyes meet mine across the table. “Yeah,” he confirms, leaning slightly away from Alyssa. “Started this afternoon.”
“I’ve heard there’s a new COVID variant going around,” Mrs. Palmer offers, eager to contribute. “Very mild symptoms. Just headaches and fatigue, mostly.”
Monica immediately shifts into crisis management mode. “I’ll have Sarah bring you both some aspirin. Or would youprefer Tylenol? I have those homeopathic tablets Dr. Rosen recommended—”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Wyatt interrupts. “Really.”
“I know a good remedy for headaches,” Alyssa says, her voice dropping to a suggestive purr as she leans closer to Wyatt. She blushes, as if embarrassed by her own boldness, though her eyes show calculation rather than shame.
Something snaps inside me. Without thinking, I extend my leg under the table, brushing my ankle against Wyatt’s. He takes in a sharp breath, water glass freezing halfway to his lips, and his eyes dart to mine. I hold his gaze steadily, letting him see that this is deliberate.
Alyssa pats his back. “Are you okay? Did it go down the wrong pipe?”
Wyatt coughs for show. “Yeah, just…swallowed wrong.”
Encouraged by his response, I kick off my right shoe under the table, allowing my sock-covered foot to travel higher, caressing his calf. A visible shudder runs through him.
