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I stepped out and waited for the door to close, for him to move ahead of me. His boots hit the ground—solid, deliberate—easy to follow. The only man I trusted with the truth.

And he stayed.

The music hit first. Soft at the edges. Too light.

My steps faltered.

Music.

I didn’t pull in. Didn’t retreat. I expanded. Pushed outward, letting the room build around me as I crossed the threshold behind him. Voices layered together. Low conversation. Glass clashed against glass. And beneath it⁠—

Laughter.

Female.

Sharp. Nervous.

Wrong.

“I tried to tell you.” Rafe murmured at my side. “You didn’t listen.”

My jaw tightened. This wasn’t a meeting. I tracked the room. Movement. Fabric shifting. Heels against marble. Breath catching in places it shouldn’t.

“London.”

“Front. Left.”

I turned toward it.

“He’s got you.” Rafe muttered. “Coming this way.”

Anger burned as the sound of steps came closer and stopped.

“Alaric.” London’s tone was deeper. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Clearly,” I murmured.

I waited.

Longer.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yes.” I answered. “And an explanation.”

There was a second of silence. Then London commanded. “Lagavulin 16. Neat.”

At least he remembered.

The silence was awkward. Good.

“How’s Viv?” Rafe asked.

“Good.”

“And the twins?”

“Also good.”