Page 97 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Finally, I lift my head to meet her gaze. She flinches slightly at whatever she sees in my eyes—something harder than she remembers, something that no longer apologizes for taking up space in the world.

“Maybe I just stopped pretending to be someone I’m not.”

The silence that follows is thick with the weight of everything we’re not saying.

Cassidy takes a step into the room, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. “The FBI closed the case this morning,” she says, her voice carrying an undercurrent of accusation that makes my spine straighten. “Jack’s death was ruled accidental. No foul play.”

I keep my expression neutral, unimpressed. “Good. That means I can stop looking over my shoulder.”

“Funny how things work out,” she continues, and now the accusation is explicit, hanging between us like a blade. “Convenient timing with your new boyfriend.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. I stand slowly, deliberately, letting my full height remind her exactly who she’s dealing with. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Cassidy has always been braver than smart. “Nothing. Just... convenient timing, that’s all.”

I take a step toward her, and she actually backs away. The movement is instinctive, involuntary—prey recognizing a predator. Good. She should be afraid.

“Be very careful what you’re implying, Cass.” My voice is soft, conversational, which somehow makes it more threatening than if I’d shouted. “Because once you say certain things, they can’t be unsaid.”

The color drains from her face as she finally understands what I’ve become. This isn’t the anxious psych major who used to ask permission to turn up the thermostat. This is someone who drinks blood from silver chalices and belongs to organizations that make people disappear.

She takes another step back, stumbling slightly over the doorframe. “I... I didn’t mean...”

“Yes, you did.” I cross to the dresser, collecting my purse and slinging it over my shoulder with casual grace. “But you’re smart enough not to repeat it.”

“I’ll send someone for the boxes,” I add, moving past her toward the door.

“Rhea, wait.” Her voice cracks like breaking glass, and for a moment she sounds like the girl who held my hair while I threw up tequila freshman year. “I’m scared for you. This isn’t you.”

I pause in the doorway, looking back at her one last time. For just a second, something soft flickers in my chest—a ghost of who I used to be, who she remembers me being.

“This is me, Cass,” I say quietly. “This has always been me.”

I walk away without looking back, my heels clicking against the hardwood in a rhythm that sounds like a countdown to something irreversible.

Thatcher’s penthouse feels like stepping into another world—a realm of floor-to-ceiling windows and expensive art, where everything is pristine and controlled and exactly where it belongs. Like him. The afternoon light streams through the glass walls, casting geometric patterns across marble floors that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

He’s waiting by the windows when I arrive, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys his kingdom spread out below. The city looks different from this height—smaller, more manageable, like a chess board where every piece has its designated place.

When he hears my heels on the marble, he turns, and the sight of him still makes my breath catch. Even now, even after everything, even knowing exactly what he’s capable of—or maybe because of it.

“How did it go?” He asks the question like he genuinely cares.

“She mentioned the case being closed.” I set my purse down on the pristine glass coffee table, my reflection multiplying in its surface like fractured versions of myself.

Thatcher crosses to me in three quick strides, his hands coming up to frame my face with surprising gentleness. His palms are warm against my cheeks, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones like I’m something precious.

“Are you okay?”

The question surprises me. Not whether I handled Cassidy well, not whether there are loose ends to tie up. Just whether I’m okay.

“I am now,” I breathe, and mean it completely.

His kiss starts gentle, almost hesitant, like he’s checking for cracks in my armor. But when I melt against him, when my arms wind around his neck and I press closer, something shifts. The kiss deepens, becomes hungrier, more demanding.

Without breaking contact, he lifts me easily, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom. Our bedroom now. The thought sends heat spiraling through my veins.

He sets me down beside the massive bed, hands already working at the buttons of my silk blouse. But his movements are different this time—deliberate and worshipful rather than desperate and claiming. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

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