I stab another piece of fish that doesn’t deserve it. My pulse is ridiculously too fast, and I can’t tell if it’s because Camden’s still smirking or because Rowan said that like it meant something.
“Protection usually implies danger,” Camden says.
“Sometimes it implies value,” Rowan counters, cutting into his food. “Not that you’d recognize either.”
Olivia exhales a small, nervous laugh. Someone at another table coughs.
Camden’s smirk twists. “Careful, King. Someone might think you’re getting soft.”
Rowan looks up then—finally—and the weight of his stare lands squarely on Camden. “That would require caring what you think.”
For one perfect, electric second, no one moves. Then Camden chuckles. “Well,” he says lightly, swirling his wine again, “this dinner just got interesting.”
“Depends who you ask,” I say before I can stop myself.
Rowan’s hand finds my knee under the table, subtle enough to warn me to stay quiet.
I grab my glass again, pretending to study the centerpiece instead of thinking about how warm his palm feels through the fabric.
The waiter clears plates that no one has finished. I keep my eyes on the empty wineglass because it’s easier than looking at Rowan. He’s too composed.
Camden leans back in his chair, eyes cutting toward me. “You’re full of surprises, Tessa. Where did Rowan find you again?”
I open my mouth, but Rowan beats me to it. “She found me.”
I glance at him. He doesn’t even look my way when he says it. Just sits there, sharp and unreadable.
“Smart woman,” Camden says. “I imagine you don’t make it easy to get close.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say flatly.
“I doubt that.”
Rowan’s hand leaves my knee and curls into a fist under the table.
Camden raises his glass toward him. “To you, King. Always knew you’d land on your feet.”
Rowan clinks the edge of his water glass against Camden’s wine. “I always do.”
The sound is soft, but it feels final.
Camden excuses himself a few minutes later, and I finally breathe again.
Rowan doesn’t look at me. Not right away. He just keeps that same measured calm until the moment he’s sure Camden’s gone. Then, quietly: “Don’t engage with him again.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, sorry. Was I supposed to let him insult me while you debated silverware etiquette?”
His gaze cuts to mine. “I said don’t engage, not don’t exist.”
“Well, thank goodness,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Because pretending to be your girlfriend already requires too much oxygen.”
“Then breathe less.”
I glare. He smirks.
And just like that, the air between us feels charged again.
He turns his focus back to the table, but his fingers brush mine once. A silent warning—or maybe an apology. I can’t tell anymore.
