Oliver glances up, fork halfway to his lips, and smirks. “I figured you’d be famished after all the not talking you did during your session, so I took the liberty.” He nods toward the spot at the other end, where a plate awaits beneath a silver lid.

Sliding into the chair, I eye him with mock skepticism. “I didn’t realize the men in this tower knew how to cook. Should I be impressed or concerned?” I lift the lid to find a flawlessly browned steak, roasted potatoes, and tender carrots bathed in a glaze. “Or was this more of a ‘supervise while you drink’ kind of effort?”

A twitch of amusement pulls at his mouth. “I can work up a sweat when motivated.” His gaze drops to my cleavage, eyes darkening to warm espresso, and something unwanted stirs between my legs. I’m so caught off guard, I don’t notice Astrid’s voice cutting through the charged moment until it’s already breaking the spell.

“I’ll take supper in the queen’s suite,” she says, reminding me we aren’t alone.

Oliver doesn’t acknowledge her, but I catch the flick of his fingers as he dismisses my babysitter. She vanishes from the room, and in her absence, his scrutiny screams at me. I’m halfway through my steak when he breaks the silence.

“How was your session?” he asks, studying me over the rim of his glass.

“It was fine.”

“And short.” He takes a slow sip as I move the food around my plate. “Sully always did have a way of making people talk.”

“Then I guess he chose the right profession.”

“We all have our talents.”

“And what are your talents, Mr. Whitney?”

“Are we no longer on a first name basis?”

I shrug. “I suppose we are.”

“That’s disappointing.”

His response tips me off balance, and I frown. “Disappointing, how?”

“I was hoping to persuade you into calling me Sir.” He’s bold in the way he’s watching me—a meaningful lock of gazes that almost steals my breath.

Almost.

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Use the title and find out.”

Flustered by his smug innuendo, I cross my legs and force a mask of indifference, refusing to let him see how he’s getting under my skin. There’s something unsettling about his confidence, how he winds it around my neck like a trap.

The dynamic feels too familiar, another match in a smorgasbord of games that needs to end before I make the wrong move.

“Who’s the woman in those paintings?” I ask, reaching for the nearest thought.

The shift in conversation surprises us both.

Oliver leans back and spears a potato with his fork. “She’s in the past.”

“Evasive. I’m sure your hired shrink would have plenty to say about that.”

“Did you open up to Sully about Sebastian?”

“You’re changing the subject.”