Paris did not react.
The city didn't gasp or pause or tilt its head toward the terrace in acknowledgment of what had just occurred. The lights continued to shimmer along the Seine. Traffic murmured below like a distant tide. Somewhere, laughter floated up from a bar two streets over.
The world kept moving.
Amaiyla did not.
Her body was still catching up to what her mind hadn't fully accepted—that Xander Reyes had kissed her. Not as part of a performance. Not as strategy. Not as an obligation written into ink and blood and contracts.
But because he'd wanted to.
The realization struck her like a delayed impact. Her chest burned. Her throat tightened. Her pulse thudded loud enough that she was certain he could hear it.
Xander pulled back first.
He always did.
His hands dropped immediately from her waist, fingers curling in on themselves as if restraint were something physical he had to grip. The warmth he'd left behind lingered, a ghost she couldn't shake. His face hardened almost instantly, the shift so swift it felt like betrayal—control snapping back into place like a blade sliding into a sheath.
"That can't happen again," he said.
The words were calm. Too calm.
Amaiyla stared at him, her breath uneven. "You don't get to decide that alone."
His jaw flexed once. "I do when it puts you in danger."
She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "You just kissed me in front of half of Paris, and now you're worried about danger?"
"I'm worried about consequences," he corrected. "And you should be too."
She folded her arms, suddenly cold despite the night air. "Then explain them."
Xander's gaze slid past her shoulder—not dismissive, but alert. He scanned the terrace doors, the glass reflections, the darkened corners where shadows clung too long. He wasn't looking for people.
He was looking for witnesses.
"Every movement we make is logged," he said quietly. "By people who don't care why something happens. Only how it can be used."
Her stomach dropped. "You think someone saw."
"I know they did."
The certainty in his voice was worse than fear.
Amaiyla swallowed. "Then why did you do it?"
His eyes snapped back to hers, something sharp and dangerous flickering beneath the surface.
"Because for one moment," he said lowly, "I forgot I was supposed to be smarter than this."
The terrace doors opened.
Amaiyla barely had time to turn before Tammy Veraga stepped out, as perfectly timed as a cue written into a script neither of them had seen.
She didn't look surprised.
She never did.
"Well," Tammy said lightly, her gaze flicking between them with unmistakable precision, "that explains the sudden shift in atmosphere."
Amaiyla stiffened. "How long were you standing there?"
Tammy tilted her head, considering. "Long enough to understand. Not long enough to be rude."
Xander turned fully toward her, posture subtly shifting—shoulders squaring, presence sharpening. "This conversation is private."
Tammy smiled. "Nothing is private when contracts are involved."
She stepped closer, heels clicking softly against stone, every movement intentional.
"You're both very bad at pretending indifference," she continued. "Which makes you fascinating."
Her eyes lingered on Amaiyla. "And vulnerable."
Amaiyla felt the word land like a challenge. "What do you want?"
Tammy studied her—not hungrily, not kindly. Assessing. Measuring.
"To understand you," she said honestly. "You're not what your father raised."
The mention of her father snapped the air tight, like a wire pulled too hard.
Xander's voice went cold. "You're done for the evening."
Tammy lifted her hands in mock surrender. "Relax. I'm not here to report. I'm here to observe."
Then she leaned in slightly toward Amaiyla, lowering her voice just enough to make the moment intimate.
"And to warn."
Amaiyla's heart pounded. "Warn me about what?"
Tammy's gaze flicked to Xander, sharp and knowing. "About men who confuse protection with possession."
Xander didn't flinch. "And women who mistake curiosity for control."
Tammy laughed softly. "Touché."
She turned back to Amaiyla. "Be careful what you awaken. Men like him don't fall easily. But when they do…"
Her smile thinned.
"They burn everything around them."
Then she turned and left, disappearing back into the glow of the reception as if she hadn't just detonated something between them.
Silence swallowed the terrace.
Amaiyla exhaled shakily. "She's dangerous."
"Yes," Xander said. "And useful."
She turned on him. "You trust her?"
"No," he replied. "I understand her."
"That's worse."
He didn't disagree.
They didn't speak on the drive back to the estate.
The car felt too small, too enclosed. Every inch of space between them vibrated with what had happened—and what hadn't been undone. Amaiyla stared out the window, watching Paris blur past, replaying the kiss again and again: the way his restraint had shattered, the way his hands had hesitated before letting go.
Xander sat rigid beside her, gaze fixed forward, jaw locked like stone.
She wondered if he felt it too.
The moment they stepped inside the estate, the tension snapped.
"You don't get to shut me out," Amaiyla said, spinning on him near the doorway.
Xander loosened his tie slowly. Deliberately. "I'm not shutting you out."
"You are," she shot back. "You pull me close, then disappear behind strategy and silence."
He turned, eyes blazing. "Because silence is safer than the truth."
"Then tell me anyway."
His voice dropped. "You don't want that."
"I do," she said fiercely. "I want to know what I'm risking."
He took one step toward her. Then another.
"You're risking autonomy," he said quietly. "The moment you stop being useful and start being desired, you become contested territory."
Her breath caught. "By who?"
"By everyone," he answered. "Including me."
Fear curled low in her chest—not because she didn't believe him.
But because she did.
"So what," she whispered, "you kissed me to mark me?"
His eyes darkened. "I kissed you because you looked like you were drowning—and I forgot the rules."
"And now?"
"And now," he said, "I have to decide whether I pull back… or break something permanently."
The room felt charged, dangerous.
"I'm not fragile," she said.
"I know," he replied. "That's why this terrifies me."
He turned away. "Get some sleep."
She laughed bitterly. "You think I can sleep after that?"
"I think," he said without turning back, "that if you don't, tomorrow will be worse."
Sleep didn't come.
Amaiyla lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts spiraling—Connor's face flashing through her mind, followed immediately by Xander's mouth, his restraint snapping like a wire pulled too tight.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You look different tonight. Careful—change invites consequences.
Her blood ran cold.
Another buzz.
Connor: Are you okay? You haven't answered.
Guilt slammed into her chest.
She replied with a lie that tasted like ash.
Morning arrived like a reckoning.
Breakfast was a battlefield disguised as porcelain and linen.
Xander was already seated. Tammy Veraga sat across from him, sipping coffee like she belonged there.
"Good morning," Tammy said pleasantly. "You look radiant."
Amaiyla froze.
The war had begun.