Chapter 22

A few weeks ago I’d have pushed for more, but I have a secret of my own, and it doesn’t seem fair to press him for his right now.

Besides, he makes me feel safe…even when he shouldn’t.

“I trust you, Liam.” I raise my eyes to his. “I’ll choose you.”

The relief on his face is surprisingly beautiful, especially coming from a man accustomed to getting what he wants.

We linger in the moment, the match on a short reprieve.

He takes his time, and when he finally commits, I’m sure he’s going to pull off a maneuver I can’t foresee—something that will give him the win—because he doesn’t lose at chess.

Not to me.

So when he pushes a bishop across the board, putting his queen on the line and giving mine all the power, I count the seconds to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

Then I take his most valuable piece.

His mouth forms an adorable frown.

I wait for him to discover a winning play, one I’m blind to…

Instead, he tips his king. “You’ve got me.”

“Do I really?”

“I think you know the answer to that, my sweet girl.”

Liam Castle never loses…

Except when it comes to his heart.

Last month, Sebastian’s father carved me open across the dinner table, merciless in his cutting accusations, making sure every house in the tower watched me bleed. Like a verdict, he laid his son’s death at my feet. From there, the night unraveled, one fraying thread at a time.

Too much wine with Ford.

Unforgivable words I couldn’t take back.

Liam hauling me away from the ledge.

So tonight, as I step into the dining room, part of me braces for more wreckage.

But it doesn’t come.

I go through the motions of eating dinner, sipping wine, counting down the moments until I can leave this room.

When the time comes to announce my choice, this supposed gift from the Brotherhood for the night of my birthday, still weeks away, I keep my promise and pick Liam.

My choice makes its way around the table without a ripple. Liam fights a smile. Mr. Bordeaux is…well, Mr. Bordeaux. No one seems surprised.

But Oliver doesn’t react at all, which is how I know.

His attention stays on his wine a moment too long before he levels me with a glance.

Disappointment, bolted down so only I can see it.

And then there’s Hugo, who simply nods and asks to see my studio. I’m still not sure why, and he hasn’t said a word since we left the dining room.