Chapter 12
VALENTINA
"Meeting. Now. Kitchen."
Xavier's voice cuts through the safe house at nine in the morning, leaving no room for argument.
I'm barely dressed—still in sleep shorts and one of his oversized t-shirts, hair a tangled mess from sleep, coffee not even started brewing yet.
But the tone of his voice makes it clear this isn't optional, isn't a request.
I find him already at the kitchen table in his wheelchair, positioned at the head like it's the clubhouse instead of our temporary refuge.
Like he's holding court. Zay leans against the counter with studied casualness, coffee mug in hand, looking curious but not concerned.
Asher sits across from Xavier, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable as always—that blank mask he wears when he's cataloging information.
The tension from our hallway confrontation days ago still hangs between Asher and me like smoke that won't dissipate.
Heavy. Suffocating. He looks at me now with those cold, assessing eyes—the ones that see too much, that catalog every lie I've told, every deflection I've made.
I look away first, unable to hold his gaze, sliding into the empty chair beside him.
"What's this about?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level and failing slightly. My heart is already picking up speed, sensing something significant is about to happen.
Xavier's fingers drum once against the armrest—that nervous tic that only appears when he's about to say something he's been rehearsing. "I've made a decision. About us. About how this—" he gestures vaguely between all of us, encompassing the complicated web we've woven, "—is going to work."
My stomach drops like I've been pushed off a cliff. "Xavier—"
"Let me finish." His voice is firm but not unkind.
Not angry. He looks at Zay first, then Asher, then finally settles on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"I'm ready to share. Officially. No more dancing around it, no more pretending it's not happening, no more lying to ourselves about what this is. "
The words hang in the air like a held breath. Zay straightens slightly, surprise flickering across his normally controlled face. Asher's expression doesn't change but I catch the minute tension in his shoulders, the way his arms tighten fractionally across his chest.
"You're sure?" Zay asks carefully, setting his coffee mug down on the counter with deliberate care. "Because yesterday you said you needed time. That you weren't ready."
"I did. I thought about it. All night, actually." Xavier's eyes find mine and hold them captive. "Didn't sleep. Just lay there thinking. And I decided that losing her completely is worse than sharing her. So yeah. I'm sure."
"Just like that?" There's skepticism in Zay's voice, disbelief threading through the words. "You just woke up and decided you're cool with this? With all of it?"
"No. She convinced me." Xavier's lips quirk slightly, almost a smile but darker.
"Practically begged me, actually. Said she could take care of all three of us.
That she needed all three of us. That she wanted to try.
" He leans back in his wheelchair, eyes glinting with something that looks like challenge, like heat, like a dare. "Let's see if she can do it."
The words send heat flooding through me—instant, visceral, pooling low in my belly. Because I hear what he's not saying out loud—that this isn't just about feelings or relationships or navigating complicated emotions. This is a test. A proving ground. A chance to back up my words with actions.
"That's—" Zay starts, voice rougher than usual.
"Hot as fuck?" Xavier finishes for him. "Yeah. I know."
I can feel all three sets of eyes on me now, the weight of their attention like physical touch.
Zay with his intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness, that makes me hyperconscious of every breath.
Xavier with his dark heat that promises things I simultaneously crave and fear, that makes my pulse race. And Asher—
Asher's eyes are the most dangerous. Because underneath that cold, analytical assessment, I can see heat.
Real, burning heat that he's keeping carefully controlled behind walls of discipline and logic.
Despite everything, despite the lies and the distance and the wall I've built between us, he still wants me.
I can see it in the dilation of his pupils, in the tension in his jaw, in the way his hands are gripping his own biceps like he's physically restraining himself.
"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 behind those 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.