And she was holding the hem of her skirt in both fists, twisting the pleated fabric between her fingers in a gesture so nervous, so young, that it made Phei's chest do something complicated—half tenderness, half predatory satisfaction at seeing the second Maxton princess reduced to a trembling girl waiting for his verdict.
This wasn't the Delilah who'd straddled him at the fire pit, bold and demanding.
This wasn't the Delilah who'd dragged him from the dinner table and begged him to take her against her bedroom wall—voice breaking on every filthy plea.
This was the girl behind the princess mask.
Scared.
Shy.
Desperate to belong to him but terrified of rejection—terror that came from loving someone who could destroy you and knowing you'd thank him for it.
She stood there, frozen, eyes darting between Phei and Sierra and Maddie—the girlfriend-not-girlfriends she'd challenged in the group chat, the women whose bed she'd been invited to share—and her lower lip trembled.
