Xander — POV
I didn't follow Tammy with my eyes.
I watched Amaiyla.
That was the first mistake.
Her shoulders were set too tight. Her fingers still curved around her cup like it might break if she loosened her grip. She wasn't listening anymore—not to the room, not to me—but to echoes. To implications. To the things Tammy Veraga specialized in leaving behind without ever saying aloud.
Tammy never wasted words.She planted them.
I stepped closer. Close enough that anyone watching would read possession. Close enough that she would feel it.
"Don't engage with her alone again," I said quietly.
Amaiyla looked up at me—not startled, not defensive.
Sharp.
"You don't get to give me orders."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"She's not interested in friendship," I said instead. "She's interested in pressure points."
"And you think I'm one?" Her chin lifted, just slightly. Defiant. Beautiful.
"Yes," I said. "Because everyone is."
Her eyes searched my face. "Including you?"
That landed deeper than I wanted it to.
I turned away, jaw tightening. "Especially me."
The truth was uglier than I could ever tell her.
Tammy knew the families. The fractures. She knew my father's power didn't come from force—but from patience. Timing. Silence. From letting people bleed slowly while convincing themselves no one had cut them.
And Amaiyla—
Amaiyla was bleeding quietly.
We walked back to the suite without speaking.
Too much silence.
Every step echoed with last night. With the way she'd whispered my name like it was both a mistake and a choice. With the way I'd let myself forget—just for a few hours—that proximity was the weapon here.
Inside the room, she stopped near the window.
"I don't like being spoken around," she said. "As if I'm not part of the conversation."
I loosened my tie slowly. Deliberately. Control measured in small, precise movements.
"You're not being excluded," I said. "You're being protected."
She laughed once. Sharp. Unamused.
"That's what my father says."
That did it.
I turned to her fully. "Your father doesn't protect. He positions."
Her breath caught.
"And you don't?" she challenged.
I stepped closer before I could stop myself.
"I don't get sentimental about strategy," I said. "That's the difference."
Her voice dropped. "Then why did you pull away this morning?"
Silence.
There it was.
The question I couldn't outmaneuver.
I looked at her—really looked—and felt something unfamiliar stretch tight in my chest.
Because if I stayed close, I'd want more.
And wanting her meant my father would win.
"I pulled away," I said finally, "because I don't want to be wrong about you."
Her brow furrowed. "Wrong how?"
"That you'd mistake intensity for safety," I said. "That you'd confuse proximity with commitment."
Her eyes flashed. "Is that what you think you did?"
I didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
She stepped back. Then another.
"I'm not a test case," she said quietly.
"No," I agreed. "You're worse."
Her breath stuttered. "Worse?"
"You're someone I can't afford to miscalculate."
God help me—I wanted to reach for her. To pull her back. To press my mouth to hers and erase every doubt with heat and certainty.
Instead, I turned away.
Again.
Behind me, I felt it—the shift. The fracture forming where restraint met desire.
"This ends badly," she said softly.
"Yes," I replied. "That's what scares me."
Because for the first time, I wasn't afraid of losing control.
I was afraid of who I'd become if I didn't.
Ending Beat
Across Paris, Tammy Veraga watched reports update on her screen.
No intervention needed.
The bond was forming on its own.
And that was always the most dangerous kind.
Amaiyla — POV
The Want I Didn't Ask For
I stayed by the window long after Xander turned away.
Paris stretched beneath me—beautiful, indifferent, unaware that my chest felt like it was collapsing inward, breath by breath. The city didn't care about strategy or bloodlines or men who looked at you like you were both temptation and consequence.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass.
He pulled away on purpose.
That hurt more than I expected.
Last night had been reckless. Warm. Too real.
This morning felt surgical.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to anchor the chaos spiraling through my thoughts.
Connor.
The name landed heavy.
Connor was kind. Predictable. Safe in the way my father approved of. He spoke in calm sentences about futures and stability and timing. He never made my pulse stumble or my thoughts betray me.
Xander did.
And that was the problem.
I heard movement behind me.
"You're doing that thing again," Xander said.
I didn't turn. "What thing?"
"Standing like you're bracing for impact."
I exhaled, shaky despite my effort. "Maybe I am."
Silence stretched between us—thick, charged, unfinished.
"You shouldn't let Tammy get inside your head," he said.
I turned then. "She didn't have to. You were already there."
His jaw tightened. Good. I hadn't imagined the tension.
"Say what you're actually thinking," he said.
"I'm thinking," I replied slowly, carefully, "that you touched me like you wanted me… and looked at me this morning like you regretted it."
His eyes darkened instantly.
"That's not—"
"Don't," I cut in. "Don't soften it. Don't explain it away. I felt it."
He stepped closer. Too close.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up—heat pooling low, breath shortening, awareness sharpening to the inches between us.
"You're engaged," he said quietly.
A warning.
A reminder.
Mostly for himself.
"And you didn't seem to care last night."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
He went still.
"I cared," he said. "That's the difference."
My throat tightened. "Then why does it feel like I'm the only one paying the price for it?"
His hand flexed at his side. He didn't touch me—but I felt the restraint in the space he left between us. It was deliberate. Painfully so.
"Because you still believe you're allowed to want something without consequences," he said.
"And you don't?"
A beat.
"No," he admitted. "I learned early what wanting costs."
Something inside me shifted—not breaking, but cracking open.
I stepped closer. Closed the distance he refused to cross.
"I don't want a future right now," I whispered. "I don't want promises or plans or leverage."
His breath hitched. He couldn't hide that.
"I just want you to stop looking at me like I'm a mistake you haven't decided whether to make again."
Silence.
Electric. Taut.
"Amaiyla…" His voice dropped. "If I let myself—"
"I know," I said. "And that's why I'm asking you not to."
His hand lifted—stopping just short of my waist. Hovering. Shaking, barely.
I could feel him fighting himself.
I hated him for it.
I loved him for it.
And that terrified me.
Connor's face flickered through my mind—steady, smiling, safe.
Then Xander leaned in just enough that his breath brushed my cheek.
"This is where people get hurt," he murmured.
I closed my eyes.
"I already am."
Ending Beat
Neither of us moved.
Because the next step—toward each other—wouldn't be something we could undo.
And somewhere deep inside me, I knew:
I didn't want to.