Page 49 of North’s Claim

“You are,” I interrupt. “You’re letting what you don’t have outweigh what you do. That’s not you. Not anymore.”

She swallows hard. I catch the way her fingers twist into the blanket.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” she whispers.

If I say it, if I even touch the truth of what she’s becoming to me, it’ll change everything.

And I’m not ready for that.

Not yet.

“Because I’ve watched you claw your way out of hell, Nyxa. If you’re reaching for something better, I’ll be damned if I let anyone, or anything, keep you from it.”

Her eyes shine again, but this time not with sorrow. With fire. With that fight I saw the first time she looked me in the eye and didn’t flinch.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll look into the courses. But I’m paying for them. You got that?”

I smirk. “You’re stubborn.”

“You like that.”

I don’t deny it.

I reach over and brush her hair behind her ear, watching the stubborn set of her jaw. And even though I don’t say a word more—she knows. Because if she jumps, I’ll be the one making sure she lands.

“Get ready, we head to the BB in ten.”

“Okay, Prez.” She shoots me a grin over the shoulder.

Once we get there, Nyxa slips off to chat with Soul’s sister near the bar while I head toward the back. Music thrums low, the vibe easy and slow. It’s one of those nights where the weight of the patch doesn’t press so hard on my shoulders.

That’s when an idea hits. Let’s see where her insecurities stand. I text Eva but she looks puzzled at my request.

Eva: Too much booze, Prez?

Beatrice is leaning against the bar, sipping from a bottle of cider like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s one of the newer candies. Pretty, all legs and thick lashes, but not even a flicker of interest stirs in me.

I motion her over.

She grins and walks up, slow and sweet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Eva behind the bar. She sees Beatrice approaching and immediately starts shaking her head like she’s about to witness a crime scene. My phone buzzes a second later.

Eva: You’re on your own. I like breathing.

I smirk.

Yeah, Nyxa's claws are sharp, if she ever decides to use them, but Eva’s exaggerating.

Mostly.

“Prez,” Beatrice purrs, eyes bright. “You called?”

I pat my thigh. “Sit.”

She does. One leg crosses over the other, one arm drapes over my shoulder. Nails painted deep red, perfume sharp enough to burn the air. Her fingertips brush my chest like she’s testing how far she can go without getting slapped down.

I feel nothing. Not a damn thing moves below my belt. Because it’s not her.