Page 24 of The Final Contract
Finn chuckles, shaking his head as he steps past. “Night, Shaw. Night, ma’am.”
“Night, Finn,” I reply with a smile, watching him go.
The door shuts behind him, leaving me alone with Killian.
And the spread he pretends he didn’t arrange for me.
“Surely you didn’t plan for me to eat all this by myself.” I glance at the lavish spread again, arching a brow at him. “Will you be joining me?”
Killian looks at me, and for one dizzying second my stomach nearly drops to the floor.
I’ve been in this penthouse alone with him before, plenty of times. But tonight feels different. Heavier.
Like if I blinked, he’d already be crossing the room, wrapping those strong arms around me, pulling me into a kiss that would tear down every wall I’ve built. One that would change everything.
But then he blinks instead. And the moment—the gravity of it—vanishes in an instant.
“Sure,” he says easily. “I wouldn’t mind a bite.”
He strides into my living room like he belongs there, like this is our place and this is what we do—coming home from a night out together, sharing food, slipping into a routine that’s never existed but feels dangerously natural.
“Why don’t you freshen up?” he suggests, already moving toward the wine fridge. “I’ll open a bottle.”
My lips curve into a small smile. “That would be great. The Sancerre? There’s an aged one in the wine fridge.”
“I got it.” He glances at me over his shoulder—and winks.
A wink.
He’s never winked at me before. My mouth goes dry, my pulse quickening, and I have to force myself to turn away before he sees the flush creeping up my neck.
In my room, another surprise waits.
Laid out neatly on the bed are my favorite pajamas—silky, the shade of deep wine, with flowing pants and a thin cami, paired with the matching robe. Beside them, my ridiculous pink fuzzy slippers.
My smile beams, wide and unguarded, knowing no one’s around to see it.
I wash away the night at the sink, scrubbing off makeup, letting the tension drip down the drain. My hair slips into a side braid. I slide into the pajamas, loving the way the fabric whispers against my skin.
But just before I leave, I pause.
I untie the robe, letting it hang loose, and unclasp my bra. Tossing it into the hamper, I take a deep breath and let the robe fall open around me, thin silk draped lightly over my shoulders.
And then, with my heart knocking a little harder than it should, I step back toward the glow of the fire.
Istand in her living room, one hand braced on my hip, the other lifting a glass of wine to my mouth.
Her space is… light. Airy. Very much Seraphina. Not the polished, poised Ledger Companion she wears like armor. This is the Sunday-morning version—rolling over with a sleepy smile, asking to go to brunch, the side of her hardly anyone else gets to see.
Books line the wall, floor to ceiling. A gas fireplace flickers low, throwing shadows across the room. And then there’s the couch. Big, deep, soft enough to swallow me whole. Most furniture never fits me, but this? There’s room. Plenty.
I can almost see it: me stretched out, her curled against my chest, her laugh muffled against my shirt while some movie drones on in the background.
I take a long breath and blink that away, dragging my attention to the wide windows and the sun catchers fixed on them. Even at night, the glass gleams. By day, I think of the suncatching them, scattering colors across the floor. I think about what she looks like standing in that light.
I raise the glass to my mouth. And choke.
She’s standing there in pajamas—thin silk the color of wine, pants flowing loose, a cami clinging tighter. Her nipples are hard beneath the fabric, her breasts practically on stage, and I’ve got the front-row seat to a show for one.
