I shoved the suite door open with more force than necessary, the heavy wood slamming against the stopper. Noah stumbled in behind me, his footsteps hesitant, like he knew what was coming.
The gala's buzz still clung to us, the faint scent of champagne on his breath, the crisp night air on our suits, but here, in this glass-walled prison overlooking the glittering sprawl of Madrid, it was just us.
No witnesses. No interruptions. Just the rage boiling in my veins from watching Hendrix's hand on him, that smug card slipped into his pocket like a fucking invitation.
He tried to play It cool, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over a chair, but I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers fumbled with his tie.
"Cassian, it was nothing," he muttered, not meeting my eyes, his voice edged with that familiar mix of defiance and nerves. "Just drop it."
