Chapter Twelve #2
The noise of the table drifts around us—Bridget’s laughter, the clatter of silverware, Richie and Joshua bickering again—but between us it’s quiet.
She takes a small breath, and for a heartbeat, I think she might lean into me.
Instead, she looks down at her plate and pushes a bit of salmon across it with her fork.
“What’s wrong, Surry?” I ask softly. “Food not good?”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide, like she didn’t expect me to use her name. I can’t help the small grin that tugs at my mouth.
“You called me Surry,” she says, almost accusingly.
“Guess I did.” I shrug. “Siren fits better, though. But you didn’t answer the question.”
She exhales and sets her fork down, shoulders slumping. “I’m just … nervous. I won’t feel better until my parents, Samuel, and Selene let me know what’s happening. I have no idea what’s going on out there. What Gavin’s doing. Where he is. It scares me.”
Her voice trembles on that last word. I feel it more than I hear it, like something sinking its claws into my chest.
“I get that,” I tell her. “But you still need to eat. You can’t run on fear.” I reach under the table and give her upper thigh a gentle squeeze, just enough to ground her. “How about I see if Corver’s heard anything? Would that help?”
She looks at me, her eyes bright and tired all at once, and nods. “Yeah. I … I’d like that.” She spears a small piece of salmon and finally eats it.
“Good girl.” The words slip out before I can stop them, low enough that only she hears. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t look away.
I pull my phone out beneath the table, thumb hovering over the screen. The message I send to Corver is quick, coded, the way we always do it when things might be watched.
A moment later, my phone buzzes once. I glance at it, then set it down beside my plate.
I lean closer to her, close enough that my breath brushes her hair. I tell her everything Corver texts me, keeping my eyes on her facial expression the entire time.
Her shoulders sag with relief, and she closes her eyes for a beat, whispering, “Thank God.” When she looks at me again, the tension in her face has softened.
Apparently, when my girl is stressed, she doesn’t eat. So I make a quiet promise right then—I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she never starves herself with worry again.
She picks up her fork and starts eating in small bites, the color returning to her cheeks.
I can’t help the chuckle that slips out.
“There we go. Knew you had an appetite in there somewhere.” I give her thigh another squeeze.
“Just make sure you don’t get too full, Siren.
There’s still plenty for us to do tonight, and I can’t have you in a food coma. ”
Her lips curve into that dangerous smirk I love. “Oh, trust me,” she murmurs, her voice dipping low, “I won’t be falling asleep. There’s plenty I still want to do too.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me—low, quiet, rougher than I meant it to be.
The kind that makes her breath catch again.
The table noise fades into the background.
All I see is her. The sunlight catches the loose strands of her hair, painting them a warm golden color.
Her pulse beats visibly in her throat. The whole world could end outside this compound, and I wouldn’t care.
I lean closer until our foreheads almost touch. “Careful, Siren,” I whisper, my mouth just a breath from hers. “Say things like that and I might forget we’re not alone.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Maybe I want you to forget.”
That’s all the invitation I need. I tilt her chin up with my thumb and forefinger and kiss her, slow at first, then deeper when she sighs against my mouth.
It’s not the frantic kind of kiss we had before—it’s steadier, claiming, a promise I don’t even bother trying to hide.
She tastes like wine and salt and something sweet I can’t name.
We haven’t done more than explore with my hands and minds since we have been here. So I am dying to taste her again.
And of course, that’s when the peanut gallery around us loses their minds.
“Jesus Christ, can we not have a live porno at the dinner table?” Joshua’s voice cuts through the noise, half-amused, half-brotherly disgust. “At least wait ‘til dessert, yeah?”
Richie slaps the table, howling with laughter. “Oh, let ‘em! It’s about time someone broke in the new dining set. Been lookin’ too damn polished anyway.” He winks at us as Bridget swats his arm, muttering something about manners and heathens under her breath.
Alisha gasps theatrically. “Richie!”
“What? I’m just sayin’, they’ve got chemistry.” He leans back in his chair, smirking. “You can practically feel it vibrate off ‘em. Hell, I think my beer fizzed.”
Juniper chimes in next, stirring her drink with her straw. “Careful, Richie. Keep talking like that and you’ll be the next one blushing.”
“I don’t blush, sweetheart,” he fires back, grin widening and a glint growing in his eyes. His eyes shift to Gunnar and Josh before winking at them.
“You do now,” she quips, earning another round of laughter from the table.
Surry pulls back, cheeks pink and eyes wide, but she’s smiling—really smiling. The kind that reaches her eyes and softens every sharp edge she’s been holding onto. I swipe my thumb across her bottom lip, catching a faint trace of her lip gloss, and murmur, “worth it.”
“Alright, you two,” Joshua says, shaking his head, “if you’re gonna keep makin’ heart eyes, at least take it somewhere with a lock on the door.”
“Gladly,” I shoot back, standing and taking Surry’s hand. She looks at me like she can’t decide whether to laugh or hide under the table, but she lets me pull her up beside me anyway.
Richie raises his beer. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
I pause, smirking over my shoulder. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do, though?”
That earns me a chorus of laughter, Bridget clapping her hands in mock disapproval. “Now off with ye, ye eejits — out o’ me dining room afore I have the hose on ye two, so I will. ”
I glance down at Surry, her face still pink but glowing in the low light, and she shakes her head, whispering, “They’re all impossible.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “But they’re family.”
Then I scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder, slapping her ass for good measure.
She laughs, pounding her tiny fists on my back as I continue to lightly pinch her ass, moving to caress between her thighs as we continue our walk toward the house.
A tiny moan escapes her lips and she pauses her punching for a moment before we reach the house.
I set her down as we reach the French doors, the laughter behind us fading into the hum of crickets and the rustle of trees in the cooling night air as we slip inside.
The sun’s low enough now that everything’s bathed in amber—the kind of light that makes the world feel softer, safer.
Her hand’s still in mine, small but sure, fingers curling tighter as we step into the house.
The hallways twist and wind like a maze, the kind of place that’s been added onto over generations.
Every turn smells faintly of old pine and lemon oil.
Shadows gather in the corners, thick and quiet, and the air hums with the distant sound of conversation still drifting from outside.
Somewhere behind us, Bridget’s laugh rings out again, muffled by walls and distance.
Surry doesn’t say a word. She just leads—bare feet whispering against the cool tile, her hair spilling loose down her back. Every few steps, she glances behind her like she’s making sure I’m still there. As if I’d ever be anywhere else.
We round another corner, and she stops at a set of double doors I haven’t noticed before—dark wood, heavy, old enough to groan when she pushes them open. She steps aside and gestures me in first.
The air inside is cooler, smelling faintly of popcorn and leather and the quiet static hum of unused electronics. When I hit the light switch, the soft amber sconces along the walls flicker to life, spilling warmth across the room.
It’s a home theater—but not the sleek, sterile kind you find in new builds.
This one’s lived-in. The far wall is dominated by a massive screen, the kind you could lose yourself in.
Rows of plush recliners rise in tiers, each draped with worn blankets and throw pillows that don’t match but somehow belong together.
Down front, instead of the usual seats, sit three over sized daybeds—wide enough to fit two people each, covered in dark gray linen, the kind that feels soft even from a distance.
She walks straight for the middle one, the confidence in her stride completely at odds with the faint pink still dusting her cheeks. There’s already a remote resting in the cup holder, like fate—or temptation—set the stage for her.
Without a word, she grabs the remote and plops down cross-legged on the bed. The springs creak softly under her, and she looks up at me with that half-smile that never fails to gut me. “Well?” she says. “You planning to just stand there, or sit?”
I close the doors behind us, the latch clicking softly into place, and make my way to her. “What are we watching?”
“Whatever I find first,” she says, scrolling through the selections without even glancing at the screen. “I don’t plan on paying attention.”
She doesn’t see my grin, but she hears it in my voice when I answer, “Damn right, you’re not paying attention. I have a few ideas of what we could do instead.”
I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush. She’s still flipping through menus when she stops suddenly, and a slow smile curves her lips. Then I hear it—the soft, sultry voice that spills through the speakers, low and spellbound:
“I put a spell on you…”