“What are you saying?” Keira asks.
I maintain my composure, though my heart hammers against my ribs. “I’m saying that boundaries exist for reasons beyond simple desire or disgust. Sometimes we don’t cross lines precisely because we recognize what might lie on the other side.”
My words feel hollow even to me. I’ve spent nights staring at Cyrus across Keira’s sleeping form, wondering what it means that we can share her body so intimately, that we can experience pleasure simultaneously through her. These thoughts have visited me in unguarded moments—not with lust, but with curiosity about the nature of our connection.
Cyrus shifts beside Keira, his jaw tight. I recognize the tension in his shoulders—the same posture he adopts before a difficult assignment.
“We should sleep,” Cyrus says abruptly.
Keira looks between us, clearly sensing the subtle shift in atmosphere. The connection between my brother and me has always been impenetrable to outsiders, but Keira sees more than most.
I nod slightly, accepting Cyrus’s deflection for now. Some conversations are better left for daylight, if they’re meant to be had at all.
I watch as Keira shifts between us, turning first toward Cyrus. Her eyes are soft, filled with an emotion I’m still learning to identify—something between gratitude and tenderness.
“I really am sorry,” she whispers to him, her palm coming up to rest against his stubbled cheek. “It was never my intention to make either of you uncomfortable.”
Cyrus’s expression softens in that way that it only does for her. Even in the dim moonlight, I can see his defenses lowering, the tension in his jaw relaxing as she leans in and presses her lips gently against his. The kiss is chaste, apologetic, carrying none of the hunger that typically defines our interactions.
Something unfamiliar tightens in my chest as I observe them. Not jealousy—Cyrus and I have never known jealousy with each other—but a recognition of the intimacy that exists beyond physical pleasure. It’s territory we’ve only started to navigate since Keira entered our lives.
She pulls back from Cyrus and turns to me. Her eyes meet mine, searching for something I’m not sure I can give her.
“Ace,” she says simply. She leans across the small space between us and kisses me with the same gentle pressure she offered my brother. Her lips are soft, warm, and, for once, neither demanding nor being demanded of. I respond without thinking, returning the tender gesture with an uncharacteristic gentleness of my own.
When she pulls away, she settles back between us, drawing the covers up to her chin. Cyrus’s arm returns to its place around her waist, his fingers brushing against my forearm in the process. The touch isn’t intentional, but I don’t pull away.
“Sleep now,” I murmur, surprised by the protective instinct that washes over me.
Keira’s eyes flutter closed, her breathing gradually evening out as she drifts off. Across her sleeping form, I meet Cyrus’s gaze. A silent understanding passes between us—this woman has somehow changed everything.
I close my eyes and allow sleep to claim me, my hand still resting lightly against Keira’s hip, Cyrus’s presence a familiar comfort on her other side.
24
CYRUS
The buzzing of my phone drags me from sleep. Next to me, Keira’s warmth tempts me to ignore the call, but years of conditioning kick in. I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb her or Ace, and check the caller ID.
Xavier fucking Blackwood.
A call at 4:38 AM never brings good news.
“What?” I answer, voice rough with sleep as I step into the hallway.
“You’ve created quite the situation.” Xavier’s tone is flat. “The man you and your brother removed? Vincent Marconi? Turns out he was about to finalize a significant arrangement with Viktor Kozlov.”
My blood runs cold. Kozlov is the Russian equivalent of the Blackwoods—territorial, ruthless, and notoriously unstable. He controls the city’s suburbs with an iron grip.
“We followed the order you gave us,” I growl, keeping my voice low. “You didn’t mention any deals with the Russians.”
“Because I wasn’t aware.” There’s a rare note of frustration in Xavier’s voice. “Marconi kept that particular alliance close to his chest. Now Kozlov is on high alert, convinced we’re making a play for his territory.”
Behind me, the bedroom door opens. Ace emerges, looking on high alert despite being woken just moments ago. I put the phone on speaker.
“The streets are already shifting,” Xavier continues. “Kozlov’s men are securing their corners. Everyone’s scrambling for what they think Marconi was about to hand over.”
Ace’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the slight narrowing of his eyes.