Chapter 23
Three days.
I've managed to avoid the brand new mandatory family dinners Richard is forcing us to do for three days straight.
Monday was easy—late class, group project meeting that ran long, grabbed a sandwich from the campus café and ate it in my car.
Tuesday I picked up an extra shift at the bookstore, texted Margot that I'd be home late, microwaved leftover pasta at eleven PM when everyone was asleep.
Wednesday I claimed a study group for an upcoming exam, which wasn't entirely a lie.
There was a study group. I just didn't go to it.
But today is Thursday. No classes after two. No work. No study groups, real or imagined.
No excuses.
"Max! Dinner's ready!"
Margot's voice floats up from the first floor, warm and expectant. I've been standing in front of my closet for ten minutes, staring at clothes I've already looked at three times, trying to will myself to move.
I can do this. It's just dinner. Sit at a table.
Eat food. Make small talk. Pretend the three alphas across from me haven't seen me at my most vulnerable.
Pretend one of them didn't pin me against a workout bench.
Pretend another didn't kiss me until I forgot my own name.
Pretend the third isn't watching me like he's waiting for permission to devour me whole.
Easy.
I pull on a hoodie—oversized, soft, comforting—and force myself downstairs.
The dining room is already full when I arrive. Richard at the head of the table, Margot beside him. The brothers spread out on the other side like a firing squad. Like judges at a trial.
The only empty seat is next to Margot. My usual spot.
I slide into the chair, keeping my eyes down. Don't look at them. Don't look at any of them.
"There you are." Margot beams at me as I settle in. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten."
"Sorry. Lost track of time."
"Studying?" Richard asks. His tone is neutral, but his eyes are sharp. Assessing.
"Yeah. Midterms coming up."
It's not a complete lie. Midterms are coming up. I just haven't opened a textbook in days.
Margot starts passing dishes around—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with almonds. The food smells incredible. My stomach should be growling. Instead, it's clenched tight, too knotted with anxiety to register hunger.
I take small portions. Push food around my plate. Try to look like I'm eating.
The table is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that has weight, that presses down on your shoulders and makes it hard to breathe.
Margot tries to fill it with chatter about her day, about a gallery opening she's planning to attend, about the weather forecast for the weekend.
Richard offers monosyllabic responses. The brothers say nothing at all.
I can feel them.
That's the worst part. Even without looking, I'm aware of exactly where each of them is.
All three of them directly across from me, a wall of alpha energy I can't escape.
Atlas on the left, his presence steady and calm like a low hum of electricity.
Zero in the middle, his energy jagged and sharp, a storm barely contained.
Bane on the right, close enough that I can feel his gaze even when I'm not meeting it.
I keep my eyes on my plate. Don't look up. Don't make eye contact. If I don't look at them, maybe I can pretend they're not looking at me.
"Max, honey, you've barely touched your food."
Margot's voice pulls me back. I blink, realize I've been pushing the same piece of chicken around for the past five minutes.
"Sorry. I'm just—" I reach for my water glass. "Not super hungry tonight."
"Are you feeling okay? You look a little flushed."
I am flushed. I can feel the heat in my cheeks, spreading down my neck. It's been getting worse all day—that low simmer under my skin that never quite goes away anymore. The sizzle in my veins that spikes at random moments and leaves me dizzy.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just warm in here."
"I can turn down the heat—"
"No, it's okay. Really."
I take a bite of chicken to prove I'm fine. Chew. Swallow. It tastes like nothing.
"So," Richard says, setting down his fork with the deliberate precision of a man about to conduct a business meeting. These dinners were his idea–a way to force bonding. And he’s about to force it. "Atlas. How are things at the office?"
Atlas dabs his mouth with his napkin—methodical, unhurried.
His sleeves are rolled to the elbow tonight, exposing the corded muscle of his forearms. I watch his fingers fold the napkin, precise and controlled, and try not to think about how those hands felt cradling my face in the kitchen after he bandaged up my hands.
"Fine. The Hendricks account closed yesterday. Ahead of schedule."
"Good. Good." Richard nods. "And the situation with the Vancouver shipments?"
"Handled."
The single word lands like a door closing. Atlas lifts his wine glass, takes a slow sip. The column of his throat moves as he swallows. Richard's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he doesn't push.
Margot jumps in, her voice bright. Too bright. "Bane, honey, how's the new semester going? You're taking that business ethics class, right? The one you were excited about?"
Bane's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He's wearing a henley tonight, the top two buttons undone, a sliver of collarbone visible. His hair is still damp from a recent shower, curling slightly at the ends.
"It's fine."
"Just fine?" Margot presses gently. "You seemed really interested in the professor's research when you signed up."
"The professor's an idiot." Bane shrugs, the movement pulling the fabric tight across his shoulders. "But the coursework is easy enough."
He glances at me as he says it—just a flicker, barely a second—but I feel it like a touch. I look away first.
"What about you, Zero?" Margot turns her hopeful smile toward him. "Any interesting projects coming up?"
Zero doesn't look up from his plate. He's cutting his chicken with more force than necessary, the knife scraping against porcelain. His jaw is tight, the muscle feathering beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and he doesn't bother pushing it back.
"No."
The silence that follows is excruciating. I watch Margot's smile falter, just slightly, before she shores it back up.
"Well," she says, reaching for the bowl of mashed potatoes, "Max has been working so hard lately.
I feel like I barely see him anymore." She turns to me, and I can see the plea in her eyes.
Help me out here. "Tell everyone about your creative writing class, sweetheart.
Didn't you say your professor loved your last story? "
My stomach drops. "It's not—I mean, it was just a short assignment."
"Don't be modest." Margot beams. "He said you have real talent. A unique voice."
"Creative writing?" Richard's eyebrows rise slightly. "I thought you were studying business."
Shit.
"I am," I say quickly. "It's just an elective. For the humanities requirement."
Richard makes a noncommittal sound. I can feel Atlas's gaze on me, curious. When I risk a glance, he's leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the back of Zero’s, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the wood. The posture is casual, but his eyes are anything but.
Zero's watching too, though his gaze feels more like a scalpel than a spotlight. He's stopped eating entirely, knife and fork set down, his tattooed forearm resting on the edge of the table.
"What do you write about?" Bane asks.
I look up, startled. It's the first time he's initiated conversation with me since.
.. since my room. Since the kiss. His expression is carefully neutral, but he's leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him.
I can see the tendons shifting beneath his skin as his fingers tighten.
"Fiction, mostly. Short stories." I push a green bean around my plate. "Character studies. People in difficult situations."
"Like what kind of situations?"
Bane's thumb traces over his opposite knuckle. Back and forth. A small, restless movement that draws my eye.
I shrug, uncomfortable with the attention. "I-I don't know. People trying to figure out where they belong. People keeping secrets."
The words land heavier than I intended. Zero's hand curls into a fist on the table, then deliberately uncurls, fingers spreading flat against the wood.
"Secrets," Richard repeats, his tone sharpening. "Interesting subject matter."
"It's just fiction," I mumble.
Margot clears her throat. "Richard, didn't you say you wanted to talk to the boys about the summer? About the trip?"
Richard looks like he wants to pursue the previous thread, but Margot's hand finds his arm, a gentle redirection. He sighs.
"Right. The trip." He addresses the table at large. "Margot and I have been discussing a family vacation. Somewhere we can all spend time together. Get to know each other better."
"A vacation," Zero says flatly. "All of us."
He picks up his wine glass—aggressive, almost challenging—and drains half of it in one swallow. A drop escapes, trailing down his bottom lip. His tongue darts out to catch it.
Heat shoots straight to my groin.
I shift in my seat, horrified, feeling myself thicken against my thigh. No. Not here. Not now. I press my knees together under the table, will my body to behave, but it's like trying to hold back a tide with my bare hands.
I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
"That's generally what 'family vacation' implies, yes."
"I have work," Atlas says. His fingers have stopped drumming. Now they're wrapped around the stem of his wine glass, turning it slowly, the dark liquid catching the candlelight. "The Carrington merger is—"
"Can be handled by your team for a week," Richard cuts in. "I've already spoken with Davidson. He's prepared to cover."