Delorah stirred to the soft buzz of her phone on the nightstand. The morning light spilled through her curtains, slicing the room with bright, sharp lines that felt too harsh for September. Hawthorne Academy's Founder's Day meant no classes, no bells, no teachers—just a Friday cut loose from obligation, suspended in strange freedom.
She blinked at her phone, still half-lost in the confusion of sleep.
[1 New Text – Kit 🐍]
8:42 a.m.
still on for tonight?
Her stomach twisted, tight and immediate. There it was, his steady hand, the casual mask he always wore when he didn't want her to see the worry. He hadn't pressed her yesterday when she went quiet. He hadn't brought up the intercom, or the way her eyes had snapped to him at the sound of his real name. He simply let it hang there, silent. She hadn't asked, and he hadn't offered.
Now he was back, pretending nothing had changed. He was good at that, moving through pain like it was something he could fold up and put away until the world stopped looking. Delorah remembered the way his shoulders had stiffened, the flash of something old and wounded behind his eyes. That name, sharp and formal, had cut through all the defenses he'd built. She'd seen it, even if he wished she hadn't.
Her thumb hovered over the reply, words forming and unforming in her head.
She wanted to say yes, more than anything.
But her heart hadn't slowed since yesterday. Her chest felt bruised by secrets. Her breath was shallow, caught somewhere between wanting to reach out and being afraid to touch what was still too raw.
She left the message unread. Turned the phone face-down on the bed, as if it might burn her if she looked too long.
The house was emptier than usual. Founder's Day always felt false, a holiday meant to celebrate tradition, but in reality, it just let the city's wealthiest families disappear into their own corners. Her parents were already gone, off at some committee brunch or planning meeting, lost in a maze of polite conversation and new rules she'd have to learn by the end of the weekend.
Delorah pulled her knees up to her chest, letting the silence press close around her. It felt different today. The quiet wasn't comforting, it was too deep, too cold, the kind that let all the worries echo louder.
That was the worst part, maybe—not that Kit was hiding from her, but that he hadn't trusted her with the truth. Not yet.
The knock shattered the hush of her room, a crisp sound that sent her pulse skittering.
"Delorah, sweetheart, you up?" Her mother's voice slid through the door, syrupy and insistent—part velvet, part warning.
Delorah groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "Yeah," she managed, her voice rough from sleep, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"I need you dressed by six. Your father and I are expecting someone for dinner," her mother called, words clipped and purposeful.
Delorah frowned, rubbing at her eyelids. "Expecting who?"
There was a pause—a little too long, just enough to signal something planned and practiced. Then her mother answered, tone bright and lacquered, polished to a gloss that made Delorah's skin itch. "A family friend. You'll see. Wear the pink dress. You look lovely in it."
No hint, no explanation. Just another order wrapped up as a compliment. Just another day in the LaRoche house.
Delorah's thoughts immediately flickered back to her phone. Kit's message, still unanswered. He wanted her tonight. Needed her, maybe, in that silent way of his. But her parents—her schedule—had been decided for her, same as always. Her choices already stripped away before she even opened her eyes.
No one had asked if she wanted to go out. No one wondered if she might have plans, or a life outside this house. The unspoken rule was ironclad: the family came first, and Delorah would show up, smile, and play her part.
She stood, feet brushing the cold hardwood, and crossed to her vanity. The girl in the mirror looked half-alive: pale skin washed in morning light, hair tangled in soft gold knots, bruised shadows blooming under her eyes. She traced a finger along her cheekbone, studying the faint reminder of last night's chaos—ghosts she still carried under her skin.
Tonight, she'd have to be both things at once. Good daughter in a pink dress, hands folded, voice sweet and obedient. Bad girl in a borrowed hoodie, tangled up in Kit's orbit, the taste of danger still humming in her veins. She would sit at her parents' table, smile at strangers, laugh at things that weren't funny, and pretend that her heart wasn't somewhere else.
The only question was, as she reached for her brush and forced her hair into place—
Who would she disappoint this time?
---
Kit's lighter clicked three times before the flame finally took, stubborn as the thoughts clawing through his skull. He pulled a long drag and let it smolder on his tongue, the smoke sharp as regret, as memory, as everything unsaid between them.
He propped an elbow on the balcony's frosted edge, eyes narrowed at the dull sprawl of manicured lawn and steel-edged hedges below. Sunlight filtered through low clouds, more suggestion than warmth, turning the world washed-out and colorless. Even the gold accents of the estate seemed cold—ornate, immaculate, untouched by any of the things that made a life real.
Bare feet planted on marble, Kit felt the chill creep upward, settling in his calves, his spine, the back of his neck. It didn't matter how many times the sun swung around this place—the cold never left. It was like the house had swallowed up every argument, every ghost, every desperate laugh and replaced it with silence and glass.
His phone buzzed against the little bistro table behind him—a nervous, hopeful sound. He didn't move. He already knew the rhythm of her silence, the meaning behind her pause. Left on read. Last night. This morning. A deliberate kind of absence that tasted bitterer than any cigarette.
He tapped ash off the railing, watching the gray flecks spiral down, vanishing before they hit the patio stones. His jaw worked tight, muscle twitching beneath his cheekbone. The words he wanted to say curdled inside him, heavy and sharp. He missed her. God, he hated how much he missed her.
Above the hedges, the world kept spinning—unmoved by any of it.
Kit took another drag, slower this time, willing the burn to fill the hollow ache inside his chest. Silence here was its own kind of violence. He wondered if she was staring at her phone too, thumb hovering, deciding what not to say.
He exhaled, smoke trailing over the railing, dissolving into morning light that wouldn't stay.
---
The sliding door hissed open behind Kit, breaking the fragile quiet with a whisper that sounded too much like warning. He didn't look back—he didn't need to. The shift in temperature was its own kind of signature; the way the air seemed to tighten, to coil around Sebastian's presence as if it was bracing for impact.
"I hope you're not smoking in anything from my side of the closet." Sebastian's voice drifted out, smooth and gleaming, every syllable dipped in superiority. The aftertaste of expensive cologne wafted over, sharp and layered with something bitter—a promise of conquest, old money and older grudges. He might as well have brought the chill in with him, trailing frost across the marble.
Kit inhaled slow, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He didn't bother to turn. "What do you want?" His words were flat, dry as bone.
A pause. Then footsteps—unhurried, too quiet. Sebastian stepped onto the balcony, holding a slim silver box in one hand, his thumb brushing over the monogram as if to remind the world of his birthright. The cufflinks inside glinted, polished to the same sheen as his shoes, as his smile. Kit didn't look, but he could feel the weight of his brother's gaze, a slow appraisal meant to find fault.
"Big plans tonight?" Sebastian asked, all idle curiosity on the surface, but his eyes were sharp, dissecting. "Or are you just hoping to look busy for Dad?"
Kit shrugged, careful, like the wrong answer might trigger a trap. "Maybe."
Sebastian's smile widened, revealing nothing and everything. "Funny. So do I." He didn't say Delorah's name. He didn't have to. It hung in the air, sharp as the tang of smoke. Sebastian's presence always came with a scent—YSL cologne, some expensive blend, but underneath it, the iron tang of bloodless ambition. A little citrus, a little threat.
Kit's jaw tightened, the cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingertips.
Sebastian moved to the edge of the balcony, adjusting his cufflinks with theatrical care, every motion deliberate. His ring caught the light—a flash of gold, a symbol of things inherited rather than earned. "She cleans up well, doesn't she?" His voice slipped into something softer, something that left bruises. "I imagine you'll see for yourself. Eventually."
Kit ground the cigarette out in the porcelain ashtray, the filter bending, stubbing, threatening to crack the ceramic. The sound was small, but it echoed between them.
Sebastian's tone turned falsely idle, as if this was all just casual banter between brothers. "You know, I've always wondered why you chase things you'll never be allowed to keep." His eyes slid sideways, too bright, too knowing.
Kit finally turned. His eyes were arctic, voice so low it felt like an undertow. "You'd know all about chasing things that don't want you."
For a heartbeat, Sebastian's smile stilled. Then it returned, wider—sharklike, unbothered. "Wanting's overrated." He slid one cufflink into place, letting the click punctuate the moment. "Some things don't have to want you. They just have to be... arranged."
He lingered just long enough to let the words burrow under Kit's skin. Then, with a twist of his lips, Sebastian turned on his heel and strode back inside. His footsteps rang sharp, measured, each step a full stop at the end of an unspoken threat.
Kit stayed frozen on the balcony. He could taste the bile rising, the rage coiling in his chest like smoke that wouldn't clear. Sebastian didn't need to explain. The message was already written in the air: If his brother showed up wherever Delorah was supposed to be tonight, it wouldn't end in a conversation.
Kit's knuckles whitened on the railing, every muscle wound tight as wire. He didn't follow. He didn't call after. But his mind was already there—at the party, at the edge of a line Sebastian was daring him to cross.
If it came to it, he would burn the whole fucking place down. And for the first time all morning, Kit let himself hope it would.
-------
The zipper caught halfway up. Delorah hissed out a frustrated breath, twisting in front of the antique mirror until her ribs ached. The glass—framed in silver vines her mother had haggled for in Florence—always seemed to catch her at the worst angle. Tonight it reflected a stranger: soft light blurring the edges, pink satin tight across her chest and hips, her hair swept into polite waves. The kind of girl who might pour champagne for politicians, whose only secrets lived at the bottom of her designer purse.
But her phone buzzed on the vanity, yanking her back.
5:03 p.m. — Kit: still planning on seeing you tonight?
She stared at the message, thumb hovering. She didn't open it. Not yet.
The dress was too elegant for her bones. Champagne-pale, all shimmer and pretense. She perched on the edge of her bed, toes barely touching the floor, hands curled into the soft fabric. The girl in the mirror looked so composed—like she belonged to this life. But under the shell, her heart beat fast. Too fast.
A second buzz.
Cassie: uhhhh… hey. random but… you're not going to that party with that Kit guy again are you?
Delorah's chest squeezed tight. She closed the message. No reply.
She stood, adjusting the dress, tugging at fabric that would never feel right on her skin. Her fingers traced the necklace at her throat, but she didn't fasten it. She reached for her earrings—then hesitated, frozen, halfway between putting on the mask and refusing to wear it.
Instead, she picked up her phone, thumb tapping out a reply that wasn't meant for Cassie, wasn't meant for anyone but him.
If I come tonight, don't make it weird.
She stared at the words. They felt heavier than they should—like a dare, like a prayer, like something that might come undone at the first wrong touch. The screen glowed against her palm. For a moment, she thought she might send it.
But her thumb hovered, and then she locked the phone, leaving the message unsent. The light winked out. All that was left was her own reflection, waiting. Wondering if she'd ever really get to choose who she showed up as—herself, or someone they could never really know.
-----
"Yo," Tyler called from the living room, voice muffled by the soundtrack of some old movie rumbling through the flat screen tv. "You good in there, man? You dying or just redecorating?"
Kit yanked his hoodie over a half-damp shirt, shoulders hunched. Water still trickled down the back of his neck. The bedroom looked like it had been ransacked by regret: drawers gaping open, record sleeves scattered in a lazy spiral across the rug, a half-spilled ashtray smoldering near the window. Everything smelled like lemon cleaner and fresh anxiety.
He scrubbed a palm across his face, eyes landing on the phone where it glowed—silent. Not her. Still nothing. She wasn't coming. Or maybe she was. Maybe she just wanted to see how long he'd wait before he shattered.
In his ribs, the echo of Sebastian's voice: "She cleans up well, doesn't she?"
Kit's jaw worked. He opened a drawer, hands shaking, and fished out a battered silver tin. Two white capsules. He tipped one onto his tongue, dry-swallowed the other, felt the jolt light up behind his eyes—hot and cruel, the familiar rush that blurred all the questions. Maybe tonight he could outrun himself. Maybe.
Tyler's voice came again, louder, nudging the line between genuine worry and relentless banter. "Kit! Don't make me drag you out. We're gonna be late, man."
"Relax," Kit shot back, stuffing his phone and lighter into his pocket. He glanced in the mirror, ran a hand through his tangled hair. The reflection looked back—tired, hollow-eyed, already a little high. "Let's go get trashed."
He didn't want to care if she showed up. He didn't want to care at all. But if Delorah walked into that party in a dress that didn't belong to her—looking like someone's curated dream, someone's prize, someone's girl—he knew the whole world would tilt.
Tyler met him at the door, already in motion, keys jangling from a carabiner clipped to his belt. He sized Kit up, reading the signs with the sharp, quick glance of someone who's seen a few bad days. "You look like you lost a bet with a washing machine."
Kit rolled his eyes, fighting the half-smirk. "It's called fashion. You wouldn't get it."
"Right. Existential laundry chic," Tyler shot back, grinning, then nudged Kit's shoulder. "C'mon. If we don't leave now, you're gonna start alphabetizing your breakdowns. I call shotgun."
They stepped out into the hallway, the front door swinging shut behind them. The night was waiting. And somewhere out there, so was she.
----
Delorah hadn't expected to feel nervous in her own house. Not like this. The dining room was too clean, as if someone had vacuumed the ghosts right out of it. Crystal goblets winked in the chandelier's glare, every fork aligned, the silver catching the light in hard, surgical flashes. The table was set for four, but only three chairs had been drawn out: hers, and her parents'. The other stood like a silent witness against the wall.
Her mother glided in and out of frame, smoothing invisible wrinkles in the tablecloth, double-checking the angle of each place card. Like this dinner was a gallery opening, not a family meal. Delorah's heart beat high in her throat, a staccato behind her breastbone, every breath too shallow.
Her father poured red wine with the solemnity of a priest, the bottle tilting slow, the liquid catching the low light in viscous streaks. Not just into his own glass. He filled one for her, too. The deep garnet swirl, meniscus trembling. Delorah blinked. She hadn't tasted wine at the table in months. Not since her mother's last "diplomatic dinner." She straightened her posture on reflex, shoulders drawn back, chin high, like a string was pulling her into place.
Wine was for silence. Wine was for keeping her hands busy so her mouth stayed shut.
Her father's gaze slid over her, unreadable, as he nudged her glass forward with one finger. "Be polite," he murmured, barely moving his lips. It sounded like a threat, one she'd heard before. "This meeting is important."
Meeting. Not dinner. Not friend. The word knotted in her stomach.
A silence fell, thick as velvet, broken only by the faint clink of her mother adjusting silverware in the next room. The air was perfumed with something floral and sharp, her mother's favorite, meant to impress. To distract.
A knock split the hush. Not loud, but decisive. The kind of knock that doesn't ask for permission, only entry. Her mother's heels clicked across the foyer tiles, each step measured, rehearsed. Delorah watched her disappear, the edge of her dress a slash of cream against the shadowed hallway.
Her father finally looked at her. His expression was practiced neutrality—almost bored, almost cruel. She felt suddenly small, sixteen and soft, clutching the napkin in her lap like a life raft.
She smoothed the silk at her hips, staring at the wine. The storm inside her built and built. Not panic. Not yet. But pressure. The hush before the thunder.
Tonight was a pageant. And Delorah didn't know what role she was supposed to play. All she knew was that something was about to change.
She sat very still as the foyer door opened, breath locked behind her teeth. The light shifted. Voices floated closer. Shoes on the marble. The script unwinding.
She wished she'd said yes to Kit.
But tonight, she belonged to the house.
And the house was about to introduce her to a stranger.
Or a nightmare.
Or a future she never chose.
The sound of shoes on tile echoed through the hall, sharp and slow. Her mother's voice followed, smooth and sugary:
"Sebastian, welcome."
Her stomach didn't just drop. It plummeted, freefalling past every floor of the house. She hadn't let herself believe her mother meant that Honey. Not Kit's brother. Not the boy with the diamond blade smile, whose eyes made you feel seen and skinned at the same time.
But there he was in the doorway, standing at ease as if he'd been painted into the room centuries ago. The overhead light caught the angles of his suit—navy so dark it might as well be midnight, lapels crisp, cufflinks winking with understated threat. Not a hair out of place. Every motion deliberate, orchestrated for effect.
His gaze swept the table in one practiced arc—her parents barely a blip, and then Delorah. His eyes found hers, holding, assessing, as if cataloging the difference between who she'd been at Kit's side and who she was now, folded into a dress and good posture at her parents' command.
He smiled, the kind of smile you only see reflected in the business end of a blade. "Delorah," he said, voice warm enough to fool anyone who hadn't heard it sharpened before. He took the seat beside her, close enough that his cologne—a cool, expensive thing, lavender and smoke—brushed the air between them. He didn't wait to be offered wine. He simply reached for the glass set beside her and lifted it to his lips, as if daring her to call the moment intimate.
"It's nice to see you… again."
Her body went rigid beneath the table. She counted her heartbeats, forced her face to stillness. Not a single tremor made it to the surface. She met his eyes, the green of her irises flat as glass. "Likewise," she said, her voice so smooth she almost believed it herself.
Her mother beamed across the table, delighted, the puppet strings of social grace pulling every muscle into a smile. "It's so nice you two already know each other—such a happy coincidence!"
Delorah opened her mouth, the beginning of a protest on her tongue, but Sebastian slid in, effortless, drowning her out with a soft laugh. "Oh, sure," he said, as if this was a family reunion and not the opening salvo of a war. "We ran into each other at my family's place. She and Kit were…" He paused, just a hair too long, letting the implication dangle. His eyes glinted—metal under water. "Getting to know each other."
Delorah felt the table tilt, the whole room listing around that single sentence. Her father's brow ticked up, more entertained than alarmed, his gaze darting from Sebastian to Delorah and back again.
"Really?"
"Mhmm." Sebastian didn't miss a beat, turning back to her with the lazy confidence of someone who already knew how the night would end. "She seemed… comfortable there. Like she'd been over before."
The threat was subtle, but she heard it. Felt it like a nail under her thumbnail.
Her own smile flickered into place, reflexive, pretty, false. "I hadn't," she said coolly. "But your brother's very welcoming."
Their gazes tangled for a heartbeat—Sebastian's mouth twitching, Delorah's spine steel. Under the table, her fists clenched in her lap, nails leaving crescent moons in her skin.
Sebastian gave a soft chuckle, swirling his wine in his glass. "Oh, he's a real charmer. Always has been. Though I do hope he wasn't too generous."
The words hit low.
She knew exactly what he meant. So did he.
And from the brief flicker in her mother's eyes — maybe she did too. But the moment passed, washed away by the hum of conversation and clinking silver.
Her mother's laughter chimed, brittle as the crystal. "Well, I hope our home is as inviting, Sebastian. We do love having old friends at our table."
Sebastian inclined his head, never looking away from Delorah. "Old friends are the best kind, Mrs. LaRoche.".
The first course arrived—salad plates, forks glinting. Conversation bent around them, all travel, weather, business—staged and distant. Delorah barely tasted a thing. Sebastian sat at her right, immaculate in navy, posture perfect, a shadow and a dare. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, like a lion pretending to nap with one eye open.
She focused on her plate, cut her chicken too carefully, chewed too slowly. When her wine glass dipped low, Sebastian poured more without asking, his fingers brushing hers—intentional, not invasive. Their knees touched beneath the table. At first she flinched, then caught herself, refusing to yield. When she moved, he moved with her. Each shift was a silent conversation.
"Careful," he murmured, voice pitched for her alone. "You'll draw attention."
She kept her eyes ahead, refusing to flinch. "Didn't have much choice," she murmured, not quite meeting his gaze.
He chuckled. "You always have a choice. Some are just less pleasant than others."
Across the table, her father asked, "So, Sebastian, how are you managing both the company and your classes?"
Sebastian didn't miss a beat: "Stanford's got an excellent online program for business majors. I keep up with coursework, but my father wants me focused here. Hands-on experience, you know?"
Her mother beamed. "A driven young man. I wish Delorah would show half as much focus."
Delorah's stomach flipped. She felt Sebastian's gaze flick toward her, a glint of mischief in his eye.
"Discipline's overrated," he said, voice lowered again. "Sometimes it's the troublemakers who get what they want."
Sebastian let his hand rest on the back of her chair, fingers curling around the carved wood. Possessive. Loose enough to look casual, but deliberate enough for her to feel it anchor her in place. His thumb brushed a small, unconscious circle against the back of her dress. Claiming, testing.
She swallowed, off-balance but not afraid. There was pressure in his knee against hers, but it felt like a promise, not a trap. She didn't move away.
As dessert arrived, his knuckles brushed hers, feather-light. She let him.
He smiled, slow and deliberate. "You surprise me, Delorah."
She met his gaze, letting her own smile curve, daring him back. "That makes two of us."
Her mother's voice rang out: "Young people forming strong partnerships early in life… it's just so stabilizing, don't you think, Sebastian?"
"Absolutely, Mrs. LaRoche. The world's not getting any simpler. Security—partnerships—are more valuable than ever."
Delorah didn't look away. "I think true partnerships are rare, Mr.Honey. Most people settle for something easier to explain to their parents."
A brief hush. Her father's ice clinked in his glass.
Sebastian smiled wider, satisfied. "Then let's hope you find something rare," he said, holding her gaze until she was the one to look away.
Under the table, his knee pressed to hers, steady. Challenge accepted.
Her parents had retreated to the sitting room, voices a distant, satisfied hum. They were blissfully pleased with how dinner had gone and utterly unaware of the undercurrents that had rippled through every toast and clink of silver. Delorah made her escape with a polite smile and a murmured excuse about a looming school project. She kept her stride measured, her chin lifted, every step choreographed until the corner turned and the tension finally hit her chest full-force.
She let herself exhale, pressing one palm flat to her stomach as if she could steady the churn beneath her ribs.
Then, quietly—too quietly—came her name.
"Delorah."
She turned, pulse rabbit-fast in her throat.
Sebastian was waiting in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, wine glass glinting between his long fingers. He looked completely at ease, the picture of post-dinner elegance, but there was an intent behind his gaze that felt almost surgical. Every inch of him seemed calculated for this moment—the low voice, the angle of his jaw, the way his tie was loosened just enough to hint at vulnerability.
He spoke, his tone as smooth as the vintage swirling in his glass. "I was wondering how long you were planning to keep my brother around."
Delorah kept her chin high, meeting his gaze with a cold steadiness. "I don't think that's any of your business."
He pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the threshold, each step unhurried, deliberate, the soft tap of his shoes on the tile the only sound in the hush between them. He didn't close the distance completely. Just enough to tilt the balance, to remind her who was the hunter and who was the dare.
The air felt sharper now. Tighter.
"I don't care what you do with him," Sebastian continued, voice untroubled. "But you should know... Kit doesn't let people close unless he needs something. He's like our father that way."
Her frown deepened. That hurt, in a way she couldn't explain. It hurt for Kit, and for herself, and for the strange, fragile thing that was growing between them. "You don't know me," she shot back, voice level but trembling just beneath.
That stopped him. For a split second, something sparked behind his eyes. A flicker of genuine surprise, or maybe respect. Then it was gone, replaced by a ghost of a smile, a private amusement. Like she'd said something he'd been waiting to hear.
He leaned in, not enough to touch, but close enough that she could smell the blend of cologne and wine, expensive and unsettling. His words brushed the air beside her ear. "No," he murmured. "But I know him. And I know how this ends. You and I both do, don't we?"
Delorah didn't flinch outwardly. She locked her knees, kept her gaze on his, refusing to look away. But her nails curled tighter into her palm, pressing little moons into the soft flesh. She was trembling, but it wasnt from fear. Rather, something more electric. Defiant.
Her voice dropped, a challenge of its own. "Why were you even at the house that night, Sebastian?"
He didn't miss a beat. "To pick something up," he said, so smoothly it almost sounded like truth.
She held her ground. "That vague charm might work on my parents. Try harder."
Sebastian raised a brow, amusement flickering in his gaze. "You think I'm charming?"
Delorah kept her voice cool, her eyes unblinking. "I think you're dangerous when people stop paying attention."
That earned her a slow smile—nothing kind, nothing mocking, just a genuine spark of interest. "Smart girl," he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue like smoke. "So why aren't you running yet?"
She tilted her head, refusing to back down. "Maybe I'm not afraid of you."
He moved closer, the space between them shrinking by degrees. "Maybe you should be." His voice dropped, a shade rougher, a shade more intent.
In the shifting light, she caught it. A faint line beneath his left eye, nearly hidden beneath the edge of his concealer. A pale scar, delicate but undeniable. It hadn't been there before, at least not visible. Not the last time she'd stood this close to him. Kit had never mentioned it. Old, maybe. But not old enough to disappear. A mark someone like Sebastian would never let show unless he wanted it seen.
She didn't look away.
Sebastian's smile widened, lazy and lethal, the kind of expression that could charm or ruin—maybe both at once. He circled her, never touching, but his presence pressed against her nerves. Tension crackled between them, taut as a drawn string.
"Because unlike my brother," he said, voice low, "I don't pretend to be anything I'm not."
Delorah's lips parted, her words quiet but certain. "And what are you?"
He didn't hesitate. "Whatever I need to be."
The answer sent a chill up her spine—colder than fear, more electric than dread. Her pulse leapt, then steadied, a thrum of something that felt like danger and curiosity braided together.
He studied her, head tilting just slightly. "You think Kit's the broken one?" he asked, tone almost gentle. "He's just the aftermath. I'm the reason the fire started in the first place."
Their gazes locked, green and blue, equal measures of challenge and warning. "You're proud of that?" she asked softly.
He shrugged, not quite defensive. More like he was stating a fact. "I'm realistic." His voice lost its warmth, dipped into something darker. "People like us don't get fairy tale endings, Delorah. We get arranged marriages, secret deals, and things whispered behind closed doors."
He waited. Let the truth settle between them.
"Do you really think your family would let you end up with him?"
Her jaw tightened, anger coiling in her chest. "That's what I thought," he said, softer now, and for just a second, his gaze almost looked sympathetic.
Sebastian glanced back toward the dining room, where her parents' laughter filtered faintly through the hall. "You can play pretend for a while," he murmured. "But eventually, someone always calls in the debt."
Delorah folded her arms, spine straightening, voice hard as steel. "Then let them. I'd rather owe the devil than dance for him."
His grin sharpened, a blade's edge. "Good girl."
He turned as if to go, steps unhurried, all silk and threat. At the threshold he paused, looking back over his shoulder, voice pitched so only she could hear:
"Just be careful, Delorah. Not all pretty things are meant to be held."
A beat. Then, lower, hotter, the echo of something dangerous:
"Some are made to burn."
The doorbell split the silence in half.
Sebastian paused, head tilting, lips already curving with suspicion. "Well, that's surprising."
Delorah was already moving, her heartbeat clawing at her ribs, every step a refusal to look back. She wrenched the door open—and the night answered.
Kit stood on the threshold, hood half-zipped, skin raw under the porch light. His hair was a mess, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were storm-dark, fixed on her like she was the only tether in the world worth pulling. He looked like he hadn't slept, like he'd run straight through the night just to make it here, to her.
He didn't bother with pleasantries. "You've been gone a while."
Her voice came out thin, caught between panic and relief. "Kit, what are you—?"
Sebastian's voice, silk cut with glass, slipped in behind her. "Little brother. Crashing dinner? How charming."
Kit didn't even blink, didn't spare him a glance. "Come with me," he said, and the world shrank to the two of them, the corridor of night stretching behind his shoulder.
Delorah tried for steadiness. "Come with you where?"
"There's a party. Somewhere loud. Pointless. Perfect for forgetting this kind of night." His tone dropped, a confession for her alone. "I don't want to be alone. Not after what he said to me earlier. And I don't think you want to stay here much longer either."
She hesitated—felt it in the way Sebastian's presence leaned over her, heavy and expectant, the heat of his gaze a pressure at the back of her neck.
Kit shifted, the ache in his voice barely leashed. "You don't have to say yes. But if you do… I won't let anyone touch you. You'll be safe with me."
There—there—the edge softened. The sharp, swaggering boy undone by his need, by the gentleness he tried to hide. Delorah's chest tightened, caught on all the things unsaid.
She nodded once, her feet already moving towards kit. "I'll tell them I'm going to Cassie's," she murmured, eyes never leaving his.
Kit let out a breath, shoulders slumping as if the moment could finally move forward. He managed a small, grateful smile—fragile as a matchstick.
"Good girl."
The words slipped out soft as silk, but they laced through her, leaving heat blooming under her skin. She hated that she wanted to hear it, hated more that it felt like balm instead of a dare.
As she closed the door, she caught Sebastian's reflection—sharp mouth, unreadable eyes. The phrase echoed between them: same words, different wounds. One brother branded, the other tried to heal.
She stepped out into the night, the door sealing the heat behind her. Kit was already at the sidewalk, not looking back, every line of his body saying: run now or lose your chance. She followed.
If she'd waited another heartbeat, she suspected, neither of them would've waited for her. Tonight, she chose the storm that sounded like home.
----
The click of the front door was soft, the sort of sound a house pretends not to notice. But Sebastian's ears were tuned for absence, and he caught the echo as surely as a dropped coin in velvet.
He didn't turn. He didn't call after her. The performance wasn't meant for Delorah, not tonight. He let the silence stitch itself back together, then drifted into the sitting room, sleeves rolled with surgical precision, expression serene as a painted saint.
Delorah's parents were steeped in pinot and self-satisfaction, bodies relaxed in the glow of a fire cultivated for comfort rather than heat. The room gleamed with the curation of old money: silver frames, golden lamplight, shadows softened by designer intention. On the mantel, a row of smiling faces—Delorah at every age—looked down, frozen in someone else's version of happiness.
Sebastian crossed the threshold like he belonged there, the heels of his shoes whispering against the Persian rug. He slid into the vacant spot on the leather sofa, filling Delorah's absence with cool authority. No sign of urgency, no edge of loss. Only the practiced ease of a boy who grew up performing for rooms like this.
"She stepped out to see a friend," he offered, voice effortless, preempting any parental suspicion before it had room to draw breath. "Cassie, I think. She didn't want to interrupt the grown-up talk."
Delorah's mother smiled, her fondness practiced but not entirely false. "That's thoughtful of her."
Her father nodded, swirling his glass with the slow, proprietary pride of a man who always expects his wishes to be met. "We'll have more time with her tomorrow. I'm hoping we can speak a bit more seriously about… expectations."
Sebastian let the pause hum, letting the word soak in the air between them. Then, with the faintest flicker of a smile—a glint, not a gift—he leaned in. "I think she'll come around."
"And you?" her father pressed, studying him over the rim of his glass, gaze sharp as a poker hand. "Still open to the match?"
Sebastian's grin was a flash of something dangerous, a knife-edge in candlelight. "I think it could be… mutually beneficial. She's got the spark our family's always lacked. And I'm not exactly difficult to get along with."
That drew a warm, genuine chuckle from her mother. It was exactly the reaction he'd engineered. But Sebastian didn't soften. His hand dipped inside his jacket with a smoothness that belied intent. He withdrew a slim black folder, leather-bound, elegant, humming with authority. When he set it on the coffee table, it was with a careful gravity. Like placing a wager or laying down a weapon.
"I had my father's lawyers draw this up," Sebastian said, voice casual, eyes glinting. "Nothing binding on her end yet. Just a preliminary agreement. Outlines the benefits to both families. The charity merger. The publicity. The financial restructuring. My father's very pleased with the terms."
Delorah's father leaned forward, the folder between them like a fresh kill. "And your brother?"
For the briefest moment, Sebastian's mind flickered—Kit's face, sullen and bruised with loyalty, a fuse already sparking. He felt the phantom pressure of Kit's silence in the house, the wild-card nature that made every plan a gamble. But on the outside, his smile held. Of course it held.
"Adrian doesn't need to know yet." The old name felt like handling a knife by the blade. "He's… emotionally volatile. This is better handled delicately."
He watched her mother, always the softer touch. She hesitated, eyes creased with a tenderness Sebastian could only mimic. "She's so young. And strong-willed. Do you think she'll actually go along with something like this?"
He swirled his wine, buying a moment. The red clung to the glass, sluggish and viscous, the color of spilled secrets. Strong-willed, she said. As if fire didn't need oxygen. As if Delorah's resistance wasn't exactly what made him want to own her, to shape her name until it sounded like victory in his mouth.
"Eventually? Yes," he said, careful to sound bored, unhurried. "She's smart. She'll see the value in aligning herself with us. With me."
And if not… His hands folded, preacher-clean. People want what they're told is theirs to want. It just takes time. Pressure. Familiarity. A little stage magic and patience.
He set his glass down gently, letting the silence stretch. He liked the hush of the room—the adults circling a flame they didn't realize he'd already lit.
"She needs structure. Legacy. A name that opens doors instead of closing them. And I can give her that. Once she's ready to stop playing with fire."
Or once I convince her I'm the only flame worth burning for.
For a heartbeat, nobody spoke. The fire crackled, gnawing at the edges of the silence. Sebastian listened to it like a conductor hearing the first stirrings of a symphony. The smell of wine, candle wax, ambition.
"She'll understand," he murmured finally, voice lowering to something velvet and lethal. "Sometimes, people just need a little… guidance to see what's best for them."
Guidance. God, if only someone had given me any. If only I didn't want to hurt and help her in the same breath. If only—
His fingers tapped once against the folder. Just once. A gentle push. Enough to make the moment matter. The weight of paper, the inevitability of ink.
Her father leaned in, eyes bright with calculation, fingertips brushing the folder's edge. Always the deal. Always the leverage.
"And this would take effect when?"
Sebastian's mouth curled. "Public announcement pending," he said, all silk and honey, "but the agreement outlines a one-year engagement term. We'd announce at the LaRoche charity gala this spring. Wedding late next year. All negotiable, of course."
Her mother looked from husband to suitor, measuring the future in glances. Sebastian felt the cold tickle of adrenaline along his spine. They want this. They want me. But she—she's the variable. The one I can't sign into existence. Yet.
"And Delorah?" her mother asked softly.
Sebastian leaned forward, lowering his voice until it was almost a secret. "She doesn't need to know yet," he repeated, gentler, as if speaking to a child. "Let it unfold naturally. She's not the type to be strong-armed. But she is the type to fall for the illusion of choice."
That earned him a hum of approval. Sebastian exhaled, hiding the relief in a little smile.
Delorah's father opened the folder with reverence, as if cracking a treasure chest. Inside: two copies. Initialed, gold-embossed, the Honey crest like a seal of fate.
Not "engagement." Nothing so binding—yet. Just the cold elegance of contract language:
Preliminary Familial Partnership Agreement Between the Houses of Honey and LaRoche.
Names and houses. Paper and power. You'll be mine, Delorah, and you won't even know when it happened.
Her father's brow furrowed as he scanned the summary—one careful, calculating crease, then a nod. "This is acceptable."
He reached for the fountain pen set on its silver tray—a LaRoche heirloom, as old as the bones in the walls. The pen gleamed, heavy with history and ink, as he unscrewed the cap with ceremonial precision and pressed his name into the contract. The signature bled royal blue, a binding spell, a promise traded in paper and bloodlines.
Sebastian passed the second copy across the table.
Delorah's mother hesitated, thumb running along the gold leaf like she was searching for a sign. "You're certain she'll come around?"
Sebastian met her gaze, and for the briefest moment, the wolf in him bared its teeth. His voice was velvet over a blade.
"She already has. She just doesn't know it yet."
The words caught in the air, heavier than the crackle of the fireplace. Her mother's eyes widened, then softened—relieved or resigned, Sebastian couldn't tell. She signed.
The house held its breath.
Sebastian gathered the contracts, movements careful as a priest handling relics. His pulse thudded quietly behind his ribs—victory and emptiness, sharp and overlapping. He closed the folder, sealing away the future, and straightened.
"Thank you," he said, softer now, the silk nearly stripped away, and rose to his feet.
Delorah's father stood to shake his hand—grip strong, smile warm, the performance of affection as well-rehearsed as any boardroom deal.
"We're pleased. Truly."
"I'm glad." Sebastian's handshake was firm, respectful, old-money choreography—nothing trembling, nothing out of place.
But when he turned toward the hallway where Delorah had vanished, the mask slid, just for a breath. His smile faltered, curdled to something hungrier. Lonelier. The wolf, unsatisfied by paper, still pacing the dark behind his eyes.
Signed and sealed. Now all that's left… is teaching the girl to call it love.