Page 6 of Rook

Because for me? I want Aisling protected.

And I want her satisfied.

Preferably without fucking my dick raw every night.

The screen flickers blue as Rook jams a DVD into the player, the click of plastic final. “Slasher or monster?” he asks, not looking back at me.

“Dealer’s choice,” I answer.

“Since when do you sidestep decisions?” Rook chuckles, settling on some zombie apocalypse flick with more gore than plot.

“Since it’s your turn to pick.” My voice is steady as steel even if inside, I’m anything but. This thing with Rook—it’s a live wire, and I can’t decide whether to cut it or let it shock us all into chaos.

“Fair enough,” he says, hitting play.

I lean forward, elbows on knees, watching the undead tear into flesh on screen, but my mind’s racing ahead. Aisling’s heat is a ticking time bomb, and the last thing we need is another Luka incident.

Chaos in the form of misplaced bites and raging pheromones.

“You have something else you want to say?”

Rook’s question cuts through my thoughts, and I glance up to find his hazel eyes fixed on me. I could bring it up—might be a little odd, but Aisling needs more than I can give her.

But I hear the shower turn off, and footsteps come down the hall…and it reminds me I’m not in charge here. Not even Gunnar ever was.

Aisling is the one with all the cards.

And she’s the one who’ll make the call when it comes to inviting new people into our pack.

Chapter three

Aisling

The credits crawl up the screen, one slow fade after another, and I can barely hear them over Oberon’s steady breathing. His head’s heavy in my lap, and I let my fingers play through his hair—soft, thick strands slipping between them like silk. The room’s quiet except for those rhythmic breaths and the occasional electronic hum from the DVD player.

“Another flick?” I glance at Rook. He’s all slouched into the armchair, eyes half-lidded but not quite surrendering to sleep.

“Sure.” His gaze flickers to mine, sharp despite the late hour. “You’re not beat?”

“Me? Nah.” It’s a lie smeared with a smirk, the kind you use when rest is for the weak—or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

I wish that was what it was about…and not just insomnia. I’ve had nightmares I can’t shake ever since New Eden.

“Alright then.”

He pushes off the chair, a stretch rolling through him like a cat waking from a nap. Rook’s silhouette cuts through the flickering light as he sifts through a graveyard of DVDs. His back to me, I watch his shoulders shift—a silent debate with each title.

“Hey,” I call out, “how about that rom com I wanted earlier?”

He glances back, one eyebrow cocked. “You sure? It’s pretty late for fate and love games.”

“Perfect time,” I insist. The laugh lines around his eyes deepen as he finds the case, pops the disc into the player, then ambles back over.

The couch dips under his weight, and the scent of him—leather and something sharp—wraps around me. Credits from the last movie roll their final goodbye as he settles in, close enough for our arms to brush.

“Here we go,” he murmurs, the remote clicking as the screen flares to life.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

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