Page 232 of Black Reign

Split lip.

Face scrubbed of every identity I've built over the last month.

Beside me stands Xavier Blackwell.

Beautiful in the cold, severe way expensive sculptures are beautiful.

Except I know what happens behind that face.

I've watched him make jokes at two in the morning.

I've watched him type and delete three times before finally admitting he missed me.

I know he hates overly sweet coffee.

I know he reads poetry when he can't sleep and pretends it is because the meter helps him think.

I know the difference between his angry silence and his hurt silence.

But I've never known this.

The slight crease beside his mouth when he's worried.

The way his eyes keep flicking toward me as though he needs to confirm I haven't vanished.

The pressure of his thumb moving against my side.

Ghost has hands.

That realization sends a shiver through me.

Xavier looks down immediately.

“Cold?”

“No.”

His eyes narrow.

I know that look from punctuation.

He doesn't believe me.

I almost laugh.

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse.

I expected luxury.

Blackwell does not disappoint.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a rain-soaked London skyline. Dark wood. Pale stone. Low furniture. Art that looks like it belongs behind museum glass.

But the room doesn't feel showy.

It feels controlled.

Everything intentional.