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Brilliant, Lana.

Rio stares at me for a long second, eyes dark, lashes heavy. His chest rises and falls, slow and controlled. Then his lips twist in something that might be a ghost of a grin, or might just be the way his mouth moves when he sees something he likes.

Brox’s gaze travels from my face down to my shoes and back up again, slow and thorough. That glacier blue deepens and softens around the edges without losing its focus.

The room feels different now. Less ghostly, more alive. They don’t say anything. Not yet.

But the silence has shifted.

And somehow, under their attention, under the faint pull of the music and the distant hum of the waking city outside the windows, I feel the night finally settle.

Not behind me. Around me. Where they are.

CHAPTER 12

RIO

For a second I think I’ve imagined her.

Brox and I have been sitting here for a while now–whiskey on the table, jazz in the background, city bleeding slowly into morning beyond the glass.

I had a plan. She was coming here, one way or another.

But, here she is. Standing right in front of us, holding the straps of her tote bag as it hangs from her shoulder.

“My shift ended,” she breathes.

Addiction. That’s what it has become. Not just ours. Hers.

After everything she’s been through, she came back here.

I straighten on the sofa, setting my glass on the table. Brox lifts his head too, attention snapping onto her.

“I can see that, princess,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I expect. “Come here.”

Her gaze flicks from me to Brox and back, searching our faces. Brox uncrosses his legs and pushes up from the armchair, setting his own glass aside with a soft clink.

“Did you eat?” He asks her.

She shrugs one shoulder, which tells me the answer isn’t good.

“Lana.” I sit forward, and trap her with my stare. “When was the last time you ate something?”

Her mouth twitches at that, but she doesn’t joke back.

“I… had a few biscuits at work,” she says.

My jaw tightens. I had plans for her body once she came back, and none of them involved food. I wanted to strip her out of her clothes, pin her between us, and claim every part of her body with my hands and my mouth and anything else I felt like using.

My playtime instincts pull back. Something else steps forward.

“Kitchen,” I say. “Now.”

She blinks.

“You’re not doing anything until you eat,” I cut in. “Move.”

Brox’s mouth lifts at one corner, approving. He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen area with a tilt of his head, then reaches for her bag.