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Tristan glared at Dylan and then at me. “After you,” he said and disappeared.

“I think he’s gone down to the kitchen,” I said to Dylan, and he let go of me.

“Does he visit you often—in your bedroom?”

“Sometimes,” I whispered, and a blush stole over my cheeks.

“So, a nineteen-year-old boy is in your room often.”

My face grew redder.

“I see,” he murmured. “Come on.” He took my hand and led me down to the kitchen.

Tristan was lounging against the island.

“Is he here?” Dylan asked as we entered.

“Yes. Over there.” I pointed to where Tristan stood.

Tristan winked at me and gave me a wicked grin. “This is going to be a fun game.”

“Sit,” Dylan commanded, and he took one of the dining chairs. I sat opposite him. “What are your intentions toward my niece?” he said, still staring at me, his blue eyes impassive.

Oh, may the ground open up and swallow me whole now.

I peeked at Tristan, my face flaming.

He was smiling, a wicked grin on his face. “Same as yours.” Tristan smirked.

I frowned. “He says ‘same as yours.’”

Dylan blanched. “What does he mean?” Dylan asked, his voice quiet.

“He knows what I mean,” Tristan said cryptically.

“He says you know what he means.”

Dylan froze—and his eyes hardened to a cold, wintry blue.

Tristan sighed and rolled his eyes. “To protect you, Emily. Tell him.”

“He says to protect me.”

“Have you told him I can read people?” Tristan asked.

I shook my head and stared at him.

We cannot go there.

“You don’t want him to know that’s what I can do?”

I shook my head.

“What’s he saying, Emily?” Dylan asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Dylan snapped, and his cheeks were stained red with his rising anger.