Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
BASTION
The air conditioning was out.
The power had been dead since noon.
The storm was still crawling toward us, slow and thunder echoing low through the trees outside the dorm windows like the sky was chewing on something it hadn’t decided to spit out yet.
And inside?
It was hot as hell.
Summer storms. Though this one was worse. Because of Emilia.
I leaned against the bannister of the upstairs hall, hot and tried to find a breeze through the open window.
There wasn’t one.
She walked out of our room.
Wearing a bikini .
Black. Minimal. Tight.
A soft triangle top that clung to her chest like it had been painted on, strings hugging her hips, her skin flushed from the heat and glowing.
She didn’t look at me .
Just walked right down the stairs with that casual grace she always had when she thought we weren’t watching.
I watched.
And I hated every second of it.
Not because she looked bad.
Because she looked too good.
Because she looked like something you fight over.
And I hated the idea of her walking around the house like that — where anyone could see her.
Where anyone could talk to her, lean against the counter beside her, look too long.
She was unaware of the tension she was dragging behind her.
The worst part?
She came back a minute later — eating grapes .
Grapes she’d bought.
Because we sure as hell never had any before she moved in.
She walked through the dorm like it was hers , bowl in hand, plucking the fruit between her fingers like it was nothing.
And then — finally — she turned and came back upstairs.
Back into our room.
And I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Relief.
Relief that she wasn’t still downstairs.
Relief that she was back in here, where we could see her .
Where we could watch .
She sat on her bed like it was normal — as if sitting across from two Crow heirs in a string bikini wasn’t completely deranged — and continued eating.
I swear I’d never seen such a perfect mouth.
“Grapes?” she asked, holding the bowl up toward me.
I didn’t answer .
Because I didn’t trust my voice.
Same as I hadn’t trusted it when she’d started having food platters delivered to the house like we were royalty and not a couple of broken heirs with a liquor shelf and a half-stocked fridge.
She’d started small, fruit, cut perfectly, packed in cold trays with handwritten notes.
Then came the bread platters. Still warm.
Sourdough. Rye. Herb loaves.
Croissants, soft and sweet and dusted in sugar.
She got pastry platters, mini cakes, chocolate-dipped strawberries, cheese boards, even tiny jars of imported honey.
We never asked her to.
She just did it. With that same smile. That same quiet pride.
And the worst part?
We fucking loved it.
Not that we’d ever say it out loud.
But the boxes were always empty by morning.
Now she sat there, curled up on her bed in barely anything, humming under her breath, a single grape between her fingers like she had no idea she was turning the air inside this room into something violent.
I didn’t move.
But I watched.
And if anyone else in this house looked at her the way I just had —
I’d break their jaw.