His lips part mine with practiced confidence; his grip tightens; his breath hits my skin, uneven for once.
And I let him.
Because right now, I need this to look real. I need him to want me like this—for them to see it, to believe it.
My hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair there, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. I press closer.
He groans but it’s there, rough at the edge of control.
For a moment, everything else disappears. Just heat, motion, and the unmistakable sound of Camden choking on his own disbelief.
Then Rowan pulls back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rowan
We don’t talk on the way back to the suite.
One wrong word and the whole shaky truce we’ve built will flip on its back. We both know exactly how fast silence turns into something we can’t take back.
Tessa walks half a step ahead of me, stiff with that ankle she pretends isn’t hurting. She doesn’t limp; she power-marches. Her chin’s up, and her shoulders are rigid.
Her jaw’s locked. Her breathing’s thin. And knowing her, she’s digging her nails into her palms hard enough to leave marks.
She hasn’t looked at me since we left.
Impressive, really. Most people break eye contact with me out of fear; she does it out of spite.
But I haven’t stopped looking at her.
I track everything because I can’t not—every lift of her shoulders, the tiny tremor in her fingers when she digs for the key card. Nothing about her is dramatic, but she gives herself away in these small, infuriating ways she’ll never admit to. And of course, I notice, because I’ve had my hands on all the places those tells begin.
Everything between us feels different now—tighter, heavier. I hate it. And I want it. And I hate that I want it.
She steps up to the suite door, the key card steady in her hand, even though her pulse is absolutely not. The lock clicks, and my stomach tightens, which is fantastic, because apparently, I’m fifteen again and ruled by idiotic hormones.
If she turns around right now, I’ll say something I shouldn’t.
If she doesn’t, I’ll think something I shouldn’t.
Either way, I’m screwed.
She knows it.
I know it.
And neither of us is brave enough—or stupid enough—to be the first to say it out loud.
We reach the door, and I follow her in.
She crosses the room fast, drops her phone face down on the table, and starts unzipping her fleece with choppy, irritated movements. She’s not overheated—she’s unraveling, and the jacket is one more thing she can’t stand touching her right now. She shrugs it off her shoulders and then it hits me—the smell.
“Oh, for fuck’s—Waffles!”
He rockets out from behind the couch. Tail wagging. Super proud of himself.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, already heading for the bathroom to find whatever sad excuse for cleaning supplies this place thinks qualifies as hospitality.
