Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
LUCA
She had her headphones in again.
Some soft, lo-fi bullshit that let her disappear into herself while the rest of us tried to pretend the air in this room hadn’t thickened like smoke .
Bastion was on the couch, pretending to read.
I was near the window, nursing a glass of water that had been empty for twenty minutes.
And she … was folding lingerie.
Like it was normal .
Like she wasn’t sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her bed, surrounded by tissue paper, silk ribbons, and the faint scent of steam-cleaned satin.
A courier had dropped the box off twenty minutes ago.
She’d unwrapped it with casual excitement, humming to herself, completely unaware of the destruction she was unleashing.
The first thing she pulled out was white .
Lace. Delicate. Barely anything to it.
I glanced up once.
That was a mistake .
She held it up to inspect it — her brows drawn in focus, lips parted slightly — then set it gently on the pile beside her.
The next item was worse .
A pale blush slip, trimmed in sheer lace, with thin straps and a ribbon at the bust.
She ran her fingers over it like it was fragile .
Like it needed care .
I could already see it on her.
Could see the way it would cling to her waist, the way it would dip across her chest.
Could see it sliding off her shoulder in the dark .
And she had no idea we were watching her.
Headphones in.
Hair twisted up.
Long t-shirt barely covering her thighs.
Biting her bottom lip in concentration as she folded a black lace thong perfectly, steam rising from the garment like it had just left the dry cleaner’s press.
Bastion hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.
His knuckles were white against the spine of the book.
I didn’t say anything, because I was no better.
We didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe too loud.
Just watched her work — piece by piece — like she was cataloging chaos in lace and silk.
She didn’t rush.
Didn’t hesitate when she lifted something red and held it up against her chest to check the sizing.
A matching bra and garter set.
I looked away, jaw locked tight .
She was fucking tormenting us.
The worst part?
She didn’t even know it .
She slid open her drawer and began putting the pieces away.
One after another.
Soft. Slow. Precise.
Like she wasn’t slowly undoing two Crow boys who’d spent years mastering restraint .
When she finally stood, folding the empty box and tossing the tissue paper in the bin, she pulled her headphones off and stretched her arms over her head with a soft sigh.
Then she looked up and froze .
Two pairs of eyes.
On her.
Burning .
Her lips parted slightly. “Um… hi?”
Neither of us responded.
She blinked. “Didn’t realize you were both… home.”
She said it like she might actually be sorry . Like she hadn’t just made it worse by existing.
I stood first, walking past her without a word, my shoulder brushing hers.
Her scent clung to my skin after that — soft, sweet floral.
And that red set?
I knew it wasn’t leaving my head any time soon.