Page 196 of Indulge
The silence that follows is heavy. Her eyes shine in the candlelight, but no tears fall.
Then she draws the final card. Her voice drops. “What would make me choose one of you?”
Reggie’s jaw flexes, but his answer is quiet. “You’d pick the one who’d never ask you to change.”
I meet her gaze. “You’d pick the one who’d let you be free, even if it meant letting you go.”
Her eyes glisten, her lips parting on a shaky breath.
“God,” she whispers, setting the card down. “You’re both right. About everything.”
She half laughs. “You know, my dad always said I was easy to read. I wear my emotions. But, damn. Am I that easy?”
Reggie shakes his head. “No, Princess. We just understand you.”
Her voice cracks as she looks between us. “That’s the problem. You don’t give me the same things; you give me the parts of myself I can’t live without. Together you make me whole.”
For a long time, no one moves.
Finally, she leans back in her chair and exhales. “There’s no winner here,” she murmurs.
Reggie leans forward, his expression unreadable. “Then what’s the next game, Princess?”
Her eyes lift, bright with something fierce and unsteady. “The last one, we’re going to turn up the heat. I can’t do much more of this emotional stuff today.”
We both nod, we can see her starting to crack. Part of me debates bowing out to stop her from making the decision. But, that isn’t what she needs.
She stands slowly, brushing her fingers over the table as if to anchor herself. “And it’s not about who feels more for me. It’s about who survives me.”
95
REGGIE
When Bella says, “Follow me,” it isn’t a request.
She marches through Inferno’s back corridor like she owns the building.
Rowan glances at me as we trail behind her. “What do you think is next?”
“I have no clue,” I mutter. “Which is not good.”
The music from the club fades the deeper we go, replaced by the hum of the industrial freezers and the faint smell of sugar and spice. Her heels click against the tile.
She stops in front of the kitchen doors and pushes one open. Stainless-steel counters shine under the overhead lights. The place is empty except for two aprons and a ridiculous pair of chef hats waiting on a table like props in some cursed photoshoot.
“Welcome to round four,” she says, spinning to face us. “Inferno’s kitchen. Your new battlefield.”
Rowan whistles. “What’s the weapon? Spoons?”
“Worse,” she says. “Flour.”
She points to the aprons. “Strip. Put those on.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Kitchen regulations: no suits, no shirts. Aprons and hats only. Conan’s on his way to document for compliance.”
“Boxers?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
