Page 67 of Own

“Did she just…” Alphabet found his voice first.

“Yep,” Lunchbox said and there was definitely a smug air about him. “She admitted it this morning.”

“Holy shit,” Alphabet muttered.

Yeah.

Holy shit.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

GRACE

Iknew something was up the second he told me,“Shoes. Don’t ask questions.”

No gun. No emergency. Just that familiar curve at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile—but in Voodoo-speak, might as well have been a damn neon sign.

He led me downstairs without a word, stopping in front of one of the empty units—one of the ones Rachel said sat vacant while the university was on break. When he pushed the door open and stepped aside like some kind of dark fairytale prince, I arched a brow.

“Am I walking into a trap?”

“If it is,” he said, voice low and lazy, “it comes with wine, real food, and if you want to be tied to a chair—well, I’m not here to kink shame.”

Laughter burst out of me before I could stop it. “Good to know.”

I stepped inside.

The air was warm, laced with garlic, oregano, and something sweet beneath the spice. The apartment was stripped down to nothing—except for a small table in the center of the room. Two chairs, one already pulled out. Plates. Actual silverware. Acandle that looked like it had been stolen from a stash someone actually cared about.

There were takeout containers from a little Italian place around the corner.

“Takeout?” I asked, voice catching halfway through.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unguarded in that way he only ever got when it was just the two of us.

“It’s dinner,” he said simply. “With me. You’re allowed to have that.”

“Oh, am I?” I tilted my head, playing along because he’d opened the door—and because I couldn’t help myself. “Hence the takeout? Even with Lunchbox upstairs just begging to cook for someone?”

“Only tonight,” he said, closing the door with a softclick. “And if it’s my date, I’m the one taking you to dinner. Staying in just happens to be safer than going out.”

He circled the table and pulled out the chair for me like he did it all the time, like it wasn’t wildly intimate.

“I’m so underdressed for this,” I muttered, gesturing to my hoodie, yoga pants, and the loose topknot barely holding my hair together. No makeup. Chipped nail polish. And yet—my heart thudded hard enough I swore he could hear it.

“You’re perfect,” he said, and it wasn’t a throwaway line. It landed low in my chest—slow, solid, and startling. Not playful. Not casual. Just...true.

Something in him eased when he said it, like a blade finally sliding back into its sheath.

He moved to the other side of the table and sank into the chair across from me, gaze locked on mine, steady and quiet and sure.

It was ridiculous. It was dangerous.

And it made my heart ache in a way bullets never could.

After he poured the wine, he raised a glass to me. “What should we drink to?”

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