I swallow. “You said that?”
She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. “I’m saying it now.”
It’s reckless. It’s bold. It’s disrespectful to Xavier in a way I feel deep in my chest. I should step back. I should tone this down. I should think about the man lying in that hospital bed, breathing with borrowed machines, trusting me to protect the kingdom he bled for.
Instead, all I can think is how warm she is so close to me, how her lips curve when she says my name, how her eyes drop to my mouth like she’s remembering what it felt like to whisper against it.
Johnson chuckles beside me. “Damn, son. Looks like you’ve got her wrapped.”
Valentina’s gaze slides lazily toward him, and something sharp flashes behind her eyes. It’s not affection. It's an assessment. It’s power. It’s the exact look Xavier used to give men right before dismantling their confidence.
She steps even closer, her hand lifting toward the lapel of my leather jacket. Her fingers curl around it, tugging gently, pulling me toward her until our bodies almost touch.
“I need you,” she murmurs, loud enough for Johnson to hear, soft enough to sound like confession. “Come here.”
I’m about to ask what she’s playing at—what layer she’s peeling back—when she gives a sharp tug, turning and pulling me with her in one smooth movement.
“Excuse us,” she says sweetly over her shoulder.
Johnson’s laughter follows us down the hall, low and satisfied and wrong.
Valentina doesn’t stop. She marches us past the storeroom, past the emergency stairs, to a narrow hallway lit by a single flickering bulb. At the far end is an old storage closet—the door slightly cracked, shadows spilling out.
She pushes the door open with her shoulder and pulls me inside by the collar of my jacket. The smell of old wood, gasoline, and dust fills the cramped space as she kicks the door shut with her heel.
I barely have time to breathe before she shoves me back against the wall, her hands on my chest, her hips brushing mine. Her eyes flash, wild and bright in the low light.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper, breathless.
She presses closer, her lips hovering near mine. “What part?” she asks. “The flirtation? The disrespect? Or the fact that Johnson is now fully convinced you’re ready to betray your entire bloodline for me?”
Heat rips through my stomach.
“Valentina,” I breathe, hands finding her waist without thinking. “This is?—”
“Necessary,” she finishes, leaning in until her breath mixes with mine. “And useful. He needed to see it. They all need to see it. You’re a threat. A wildcard. A possibility.”
Her fingers curl in my jacket, tugging me closer until our foreheads almost touch.
“And it helps that you look like you want to devour me every time I get near you.”
Her words hit like a punch, low and unsteadying.
“I do,” I admit before I can stop myself.
She smiles, slow and devastating.
“I know.”
The closet door rattles faintly as someone passes outside, music pounding distantly through the walls. Everything feels tight. Dark. Alive.
Valentina leans in closer, her lips almost brushing mine, her breath warm enough to burn.
“Now,” she whispers, “let’s finish making them believe you’re the perfect traitor.”
My hands come up, one cradling the back of her head, fingers tangling in the silk of her blonde hair, the other gripping her hip, pulling her flush against me. I can feel the frantic beat of her heart through our clothes. Or maybe it’s mine.
“No more talking,” I growl, my voice rough,raw.