Eris
The loft is too quiet, but I like it that way.
Quiet lets me think, lets me spiral if I need to. It allows me time to lie back on a bed that isn’t mine and pretend, for just a minute, that I didn’t rearrange my entire life in the span of forty-eight hours.
My new room sits exactly where it should: neutral ground.
Not really a claim or a retreat. Jace and Kieran have rooms across the hall, close enough to feel their presence without crowding me or caging me in.
Silas is at the far end, like a whispered suggestion, reminding me of a choice I haven’t made yet.
I open the app to that same dark interface. Same slow pulse of a cursor that always feels like it’s watching me breathe. It’s easier to be honest behind a screen, to let a little of my vulnerability show without cringing.
Locke:
Still awake?
I smile to myself, thumb hovering as I shake my head. Of course, they’re watching, silently observing me like an assassin in a crowd, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Will they use poison or daggers? A quick bullet to the head?
No…
Just words.
Eris:
You say that as if you’re surprised.
Locke:
You’ve had a long day. We thought you might sleep.
I tilt my head, considering the day, but despite it being long, it hasn’t been exhausting. Mentally taxing, maybe… Though it’s nothing a few moments by myself haven’t cured.
Eris:
You say that like you’ve been watching.
The pause that follows is deliberate, measured by the beats of my heart… And I already have a good guess who I’m talking to.
Locke:
Always.
Heat curls low in my stomach, coiling around this depraved need I have for these men. I shift on the bed, worn cotton fabric sliding against bare skin. I’m still wearing a shirt that isn’t mine. And I lost my pants when I closed the bedroom door, but I have absolutely no intention of fixing that.
Eris:
So… who am I talking to tonight?
Hollow?
Whisper?
Cipher?
Locke:
Someone who hasn’t stopped thinking about the way you smile.
Eris:
That narrows it down to…
All of you.
Locke:
Maybe.
But I’m the one who likes it too much.
Why does that make my breath stutter? Other than the way I can hear his voice, warm and edged by restraint. Dangerous to my health. This tone isn’t Jace’s easy hunger or Silas’s precision.
Eris:
And you want me to guess who you are?
Locke:
I want you to ask the real question you keep hiding away from.
Eris:
Which is…?
Locke:
Do I want you?
Do we really want you?
I roll my eyes, but heat creeps over my cheeks. Physically, it’s obvious they want me… But outside of sex, do I want this? My throat tightens at the thought of leaving, so I type before I can overthink it and spiral about a future I can’t yet see.
Eris:
Do you?
The cursor blinks, then stops abruptly.
And the door to my room opens.
Kieran fills the threshold, half his face shadowed by the dark hall.
He keeps one hand braced against the frame as if he’s debating whether to step in or walk away.
I drag my teeth over my bottom lip as I take in his appearance, from his rumpled shirt to his dark jeans.
Hair messy, like he’s dragged his fingers through it too many times since I saw him in the living room.
He doesn’t speak.
I let the app screen fade to black and stand slowly, the shirt I’m wearing sliding against my skin in a soft brush. I fight to hide my smile, but it’s a losing battle.
Energy crackles between us, a tangible static in the air. I turn and walk into the bathroom like it doesn’t matter whether he follows.
It does.
But I’m not ready to unpack the why of my feelings.
I leave the door open.
The light clicks on behind me, casting us both in the mirror, catching the possessive look in his brilliant green eyes. His presence shifts the temperature in the bathroom before he ever touches me.
“You already knew it was me,” he says quietly, his lips pulling up at the corner. “Didn’t you?”
I meet his eyes in the reflection. “I suspected.”
He takes a step closer, hands fisted at his sides as we test his restraint. Even with no contact… We’re just barely controlled flames and the consuming heat.
All intentions.
Zero resistance.
“You’re playing with fire.” His voice is rough, crawling deliciously down my spine, lighting up my nerves.
A wide smile graces my lips. “Fire doesn’t scare me. I hold the matches and the gasoline.”
His hand lifts, as devout as a whispered confession on holy ground, ghosting up the back of my thigh beneath the hem of my shirt. It’s his best friend’s shirt covering the skin he wants to touch.
The match strikes.
And I don’t move to put it out.