"So what?" I ask, finding my voice even though it comes out breathier than intended. "You want me to prove it? Right here, right now?"
"Unless you were lying," Xavier replies smoothly, voice like silk and smoke. "Unless you can't actually handle all three of us. Unless it was just talk."
It's a challenge. A direct, blatant dare. And I've never been good at backing down from dares, never been able to resist proving people wrong when they doubt me.
I stand slowly, deliberately. Chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound that cuts through the charged silence. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere—but I keep my face neutral, controlled, refusing to show the nervousness underneath. "You want proof?"
"Yeah, baby. I do." Xavier's voice drops lower, rougher.
"Fine."
I grab the hem of Xavier's oversized shirt—the one that falls to mid-thigh on me, the one that smells like him, the one I slept in—and pull it over my head in one smooth, unhurried motion. Not rushed. Not nervous. Deliberate.
The air is cool against my overheated skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and chest. I'm wearing nothing underneath—no bra, no underwear, just bare skin and the thin sleep shorts that barely count as clothing. I drop the shirt on the floor without breaking eye contact with Asher.
Because he's the one who needs to see this. The one who's been keeping his distance, who called me out for weaponizing sex, who pushed me away in that hallway when I tried to use attraction as a deflection. The one who told me he doesn't fuck people who aren't honest with him.
His eyes darken immediately—pupils dilating until there's barely any color left, jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle jump. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't even seem to breathe. But I can see the heat building behind that carefully controlled exterior, see the cracks forming in his armor.
Good.
I hold his gaze as I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my sleep shorts. Push them down slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric slide over my hips, down my thighs, pooling around my ankles. I step out of them without looking down, kick them aside with one foot.
Now I'm completely naked in Xavier's kitchen, standing in front of three men who all want me in different ways, for different reasons. Three men who've seen me broken and scared and strong. Three men who know different versions of me.
The vulnerability should terrify me. Should make me want to cover myself, to run, to hide. Instead it feels like power. Like reclaiming something I didn't know I'd lost.
Asher's breath catches—barely audible but I hear it. His knuckles are white where he's gripping his arms, his whole body rigid with the effort of staying still. But he doesn't look away. Doesn't close his eyes. Just watches me with that burning intensity.
I let the moment stretch. Let them all look. Let them see what they're getting, what I'm offering, what this means.
Then I turn my attention to Zay.
"Zay," I say, my voice coming out lower than intended. Husky with arousal I'm not trying to hide. "Get on your knees."
"Fuck," he breathes, the word almost a prayer. But he's already moving—setting his coffee mug down on the counter with a sharp click that seems too loud, crossing the space between us in three long strides, dropping to his knees in front of me without hesitation or question. His hands hover near my hips, not quite touching, trembling slightly as he waits for permission.
The sight of him on his knees—this strong, controlled man who could break me in half if he wanted—sends another wave of heat through me. Power and arousal mixing until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"Good," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair. It's soft, longer than it should be, and I tangle my fingers in it, gripping just hard enough to make him gasp. He makes a sound low in his throat—half groan, half surrender, completely wrecked already.
Xavier's watching with hooded eyes, one hand gripping the armrest of his wheelchair so tight his knuckles have gone bone-white. There's heat in his gaze, raw possession, and something darker that makes my stomach clench with anticipation. He shifts in his chair, jaw tight, and I know he's hard. Know he's imagining what comes next.
Asher still hasn't moved from his chair. Still hasn't spoken. But his eyes are burning holes through me, tracking every movement, every breath. I can see the war happening behindthose eyes—control versus desire, logic versus want. His hands are shaking where they grip his biceps.
I tug Zay's hair, making him look up at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left. His lips are parted, breath coming fast. He looks absolutely wrecked and I haven't even touched him properly yet.
"You know what I want?" I ask softly, intimately, like it's just the two of us even though we have an audience.
"Tell me," he breathes. "Anything. Whatever you want."
I guide his face closer, feeling his breath hot against my stomach, my thighs. "I want your mouth on me. Right here. Right now."
"Jesus," Xavier mutters from his wheelchair, voice strained.
Zay's hands finally touch me—sliding up my outer thighs with barely restrained urgency, gripping my hips, pulling me closer. "Like this?" he asks, and his voice is completely destroyed.
"No." I tug his hair again, harder this time, making him groan. "Lie down. On your back."