I let that sit between us for half a second, let the weight of it settle into the air, let the truth of it press into his ribs the way he’s been pressing into mine for my entire fucking life. “And if you think you are, you better be ready to prove it.”

Tate finally sets his glass down. When he looks at me again, his smirk is gone. He leans against the counter, fingers tapping against the glass he just set down, his eyes boring into me with that same fucking look, the one that says he thinks he’s already won, the one that says he’s waiting for me to crack.

Not this time. I hold his gaze, breathing sharp and even, my muscles still locked up with the weight of everything I just threw at him, waiting for him to take his hit back. Of course, he does. His smirk comes back, like he’s not even trying.

Then just to twist the knife, just to make sure I’m already halfway to losing my mind before he even says it, he tilts his head toward the couch, where Haven is still sitting, her body tense, her hands curled into fists against her thighs, watching us.

And then in the lowest, most self-satisfied voice I’ve ever fucking heard from him he says it. “You sure about that, little brother?”

I don’t respond. I already know whatever he says next is going to make me absolutely fucking lose it. A slow, wicked smirk, the one designed to make me snap, one that’s already working, he adds, “Because I’m willing to bet I’d be better at making her fall apart. Better at making her scream my name. Better at making her take my dick and beg for more.”

The world fucking explodes. My vision goes white-hot, my pulse roaring, slamming into my chest so fast I don’t have time to second-guess it before the words are coming out of my mouth. “Want to bet?”

The second it’s out, the room shifts. Tate’s smirk doesn’t falter, but his eyes flash, something that tells me I just gave him exactly what he wanted. But I don’t fucking care. Because fuck him. He wanted a reaction? He got one.

Haven is still watching from the couch, wide-eyed, breath caught in her throat, fingers tightening against the fabric like she doesn’t know if she should let this completely derail. Her eyes dart between us, color spreading on her cheeks, her chest rising and falling just a little too fast, and I swear to god, the fact that she isn’t telling me to stop only makes the fire in my veins burn hotter.

Tate isn’t smirking anymore. Not the usual cocky, I’ve-got-you-right-where-I-want-you bullshit grin he always throws my way. Not the taunting, smug amusement he wears every time he knows he’s gotten under my skin.