"I was being honest."
"You were being you,” Bane cuts him short.
"She snorted into her drink. That's a win, Bane." Zero lays back, sprawling across as much blanket as he can.
"She was afraid of you," I say into Atlas's thigh.
"She was charmed. Ask her yourself."
I smile. Atlas's fingers move through my hair and the bond goes warm in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature.
"Richard insulted lemon tarts within ninety seconds," Bane adds.
Atlas makes a sound that might be a laugh. It's so rare from him that I open one eye to confirm. The corner of his mouth is turned up. His head is tipped back. He looks—for thefirst time since he walked through the front door tonight—like a person instead of a machine.
"To her face?"
"To her face. Called lemon a cleaning product flavor. While Wren was sitting right there telling him it was her favorite."
"Somebody had to step in," Zero says. "Dad went on a whole speech about how literature is a retirement hobby and reading is what you do once you've made your money. To a bookseller. At our dinner table. Not to mention Max was right there."
"That's not—" Bane pauses. "Actually, that's completely accurate."
"And after?" Atlas asks. His voice has dropped half a register. His fingers are still in my hair. "After Wren left?"
The silence changes.
Bane looks at Zero. Zero looks at Bane. Something passes between them—the shorthand again—and Zero's mouth curls.
"After Wren left," Zero says, sitting up on his elbows, "I put Max on the dining table between two place settings and kissed him while the candles were still burning."
"A little dangerous to do that in the dining room, Zero."
"I'm a dangerous man, Atlas. Keep up." He takes a swig of his beer. "Then Bane came back from walking Wren out and got territorial about the sleeping arrangements."
"I wasn't territorial. I'd called it at lunch."
"You'd called it to yourself. That's a prayer, Bane, not a claim."
I can’t help but smile into Atlas’ thigh.
"I called it, and you ignored it, and then you tried to negotiate for the entire night when we'd already agreed you'd get forty minutes."
"Forty minutes is nothing. That's a warm-up. That's foreplay for the foreplay."
"It's what we agreed to. Forty minutes and you wash the wineglasses."
"And did you get your forty minutes?" Atlas asks. I can hear the amusement building in his voice. His fingers haven't stopped moving in my hair.
Silence.
"He got an hour and a half," Bane says, and there's an edge to it—an old bruise, the kind brothers give each other without meaning to. Or meaning to completely in this case. "I had to physically walk into his room and take Max by the hand. Zero was—he wasn't done. He made thatveryclear."
"I wasn't done because Max wasn't done. Tell him, Max."
I press my face deeper into Atlas's thigh. "I'm not telling him anything."
"He was making this sound," Zero continues, undeterred. "Sort of a—"
