Page 81 of Sinfully Yours

Tick tock, Ava. The clock's running out.

Attached is a photo of my brothers.

Dean, Ryan, and Nate, sitting in a booth at The Riverwalk Café, laughing over their coffee, completely oblivious to the fact that someone is watching them.

My hands go numb.

Liam sees my face and sits up immediately. "Ava? What?—"

I turn the phone toward him, my stomach twisting. "They're watching my family."

17

LIAM

Ava hasn't let go of my hand since she showed me the text.

She's curled up beside me on the couch, her fingers gripping mine like I'm the only thing tethering her to solid ground. The picture of her brothers still burns in my mind—too clear, too calculated. Whoever sent that message knew exactly what they were doing.

But right now, Ava's looking at me, not the phone. Her expression is tight, but her voice is steady when she finally speaks. "Stay."

I blink, thrown by the shift. "Ava?—"

"Please."

It's not just about the threat. It's about everything. The gala, Vanessa, the way we just were before that text shattered the illusion.

The smart thing would be to leave, to put some distance between us before the lines blur even more.

But I've never been smart when it comes to Ava Bennett.

So I nod. "Alright."

She exhales, relieved, then gestures toward the couch. "I'll get you a blanket."

I arch a brow. "You know, at this point, I should just bring a bag over."

She huffs a laugh, standing. "As if you'd actually use it. You'd just show up in another one of your overpriced suits and act like it's totally normal."

I smirk because she's right.

A minute later, she returns with a pillow and a thick, worn blanket, tossing them onto the couch beside me. I shake my head, grabbing the pillow and stuffing it behind me.

She tilts her head. "What?"

I hold her gaze. "We both know I'm not sleeping out here."

Ava blinks, and I see the war in her expression—the push and pull of what's wise versus what she wants. Then, with a quiet sigh, she mutters, "Just shut up and get in bed."

I chuckle as I follow her to the bedroom.

She flicks on the TV and climbs onto the mattress, grabbing the remote as I settle in beside her. The bed is small, warm, scented like her—honey and lavender and something inherently Ava.

She scrolls through a few options before settling on an old heist movie, tossing the remote aside.

We watch in comfortable silence for a while, the glow of the screen flickering across her face. But my attention keeps drifting—from the film, from the threats, from everything except her.

Her legs stretch out beside mine, bare and smooth. Her fingers twist absently in the hem of my shirt, the one she stole from me earlier tonight.

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