“No,” he says, drawing out the word, “I was talking about other things when you changed the subject.”

“Was she your girlfriend?”

His fork clanks against the table. “You’re not going to drop this, are you?”

“Not likely.”

He presses his lips together, holding back words that threaten to break free. “Her name was Talitha.”

Was.

A lump of sympathy rises in my chest. At best, his mystery woman broke his heart, though I have a feeling it’s much worse than a story of parted ways.

“What happened?” I ask, bracing myself.

“She died.”

His blunt answer lands between us with an echo of agony.

“So I understand what you’re going through.”

“I’m sorry,” I choke out, swallowing the ache in my throat. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It’s fine.” He shakes his head, waving off the apology. “It was a long time ago.”

Not long enough.

And it never will be.

He doesn’t voice it, but I hear his unspoken truth. His heart bears a permanent hole, like mine. The realization presses against my ribs, haunting the hollow spaces of my own loss. I should say something, offer a feeble platitude, but nothing feels adequate. Grief isn’t so easily erased.

“It’s been a long day.” I pull my hands back from the table. “May I be excused?”

“I haven’t presented my gift yet.” His tone prickles the back of my neck.

Because a gift from the Brotherhood is never just a gift.

I glance at the massive ring on my left hand and think back to that first dinner, that first offering, when Liam staked his claim. In this tower, gifts always come with strings.

Oliver’s easy confidence tells me this one is no different.

“You seem suspicious,” he says. “Don’t you enjoy gifts?”

“I don’t trust them, coming from the Brotherhood.”

“There’s no need to be wary.” He drags a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “This isn’t something you can unwrap.”

“Okay,” I concede begrudgingly. “I’m intrigued.”

“When you’re ready to know what’s behind the locked door,” he murmurs, savoring the slow tease of my curiosity, “just say the word.”

I know exactly which door he’s talking about, which word he wants me to say.

Sir.

“You’re assuming I want to know what’s inside.”

“Trust me. You will.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

The candlelight flickers, glinting in his eyes. “It’s a talent of mine.”

His words hang between us, with no elaboration offered.

Not that I want one.

I push back from the table, limbs sluggish with exhaustion, and try to ignore the certainty in his smirk. He already knows I won’t be able to stop thinking about what’s behind that door.

Why is it that once an unwanted thought is planted, it spreads like a weed, wild and uncontrollable?