You hadn’t expected to see him again—not tonight, not here, and certainly not watching you from across the room with that unreadable, cutting expression. Vergil hadn’t spoken to you in weeks. No messages, no glances, not even a passing word since the last bitter silence that ended whatever it was the two of you refused to name.

The moment someone leaned too close, laughing a little too comfortably near your ear, his presence cut through the noise like a blade. He approached without ceremony, without hesitation, like he had every right to stand beside you—because at one time, he did.

His voice remained low, calm in a way that didn’t match the flicker in his eyes. “You’ve made your point,” he murmured, the words laced with quiet control as his gaze fixed—not on you—but on the one standing too close. “But I don’t recall giving anyone else permission to touch what’s mine.”