🔐Spencer🔐

The silence was suspicious.

Asher stepped into the kitchen cautiously, his bare feet sinking into the plush runner Devereaux had insisted they needed—because, quote, “It brings out the warmth in this prison you call a home.”

There was no warmth right now. Just the eerie hum of the smart fridge speaking flawless French.

“Bonjour, Asher. Il n'y a pas de café pour toi aujourd'hui.”

He glared at the appliance. “You too?”

The dog—his dog—lifted its head from where it was curled up beside the fireplace and let out a low warning growl. Asher didn’t even try to walk past him. He’d learned that lesson the hard way two days ago.

“Traitor,” he muttered.

“I taught him that, actually,” came a bright voice from behind him. “The growl. It’s subtle, but it communicates his disdain beautifully.”

Asher turned around slowly.

Devereaux stood there, barefoot, wearing a red silk robe like she owned the house, the zip code, and maybe the whole damn state. A mug of something definitely not tea was cradled in her hands.

His eyes narrowed. “Is that coffee?”

She took a dramatic sip. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You flushed every ounce of caffeine in this house!”

She tilted her head, unbothered. “Mm-hmm. And yet—look at me now. Thriving.”

Asher stared at the mug like it had personally betrayed him. “You have a secret stash.”

“I always have a secret stash,” she said, mock-offended. “What kind of amateur do you take me for? This isn’t my first psychological warfare campaign.”

From across the room, she didn’t even blink. Just took another smug sip and hummed, blissfully unaware—like she wasn’t the damn villain in his personal caffeine tragedy.

“No, no,” Asher muttered, raking a hand through his hair as he stalked into the kitchen. “You didn’t just dump it—you made it theatrical.”

“Oh, come on.” She lifted a shoulder. “You’re a man of drama. I was speaking your language.”

“I watched the security feed in real time, Devereaux. You looked straight into the camera, flipped me off, and poured a full bag of imported espresso beans down the garbage disposal like you were performing a ritual sacrifice.”

Devereaux beamed. “You noticed the flourish. I’m touched.”

Asher opened the fridge. Nothing. Checked the pantry. Empty. Even the backup stash behind the cereal boxes—gone.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?” she asked sweetly.

“The coffee, Dev.”

She took another long, luxurious sip. “Maybe I’ve transcended. Maybe revenge is my new fuel.”

“You’re hiding it. Somewhere in this house. And I will find it.”

“Doubt it,” she said, eyes sparkling. “I buried it deeper than your emotional intimacy issues.”

Asher crossed his arms, jaw tightening. “What did you do with the batteries?”

“I needed them for the new universal remote.”

“There is no new universal remote.”

“Oh,” she said sweetly. “Then I guess I was just bored.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to five. Then ten. “Devereaux.”

“Yes, Asher?”

“Why is my underwear in the pool?”

She didn’t even flinch. “Because you left it in the laundry basket near the deck. Natural consequences.”

He stared at her. “You have absolutely no sense of boundaries.”

Devereaux tilted her head, lips curving in mock innocence. “You tranquilized me in my sleep and dragged me to an undisclosed location without telling me why. I think I’m being remarkably restrained.”

“You’ve hacked every device I own.”

“I only changed your Netflix profile name to Big Sad Energy.”

“And my Hulu queue is nothing but The Bachelor now!”

She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Asher stepped closer, looming now. “You’re playing a dangerous game. You don’t win just because you’re chaotic.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Chaos is how I win.”

He stopped a foot from her, nostrils flaring as he studied her defiant, wickedly amused face.

“Is this the part where you stab me?” she asked, arching a brow. “Or confess you like it when I drive you insane?”

“I have hacked governments,” he said flatly. “I’ve broken into private servers protected by triple-encrypted blockchain firewalls. You really think I won’t find a tin of smugly hidden espresso?”

Devereaux leaned in. “I think you’re sleep-deprived, irritable, and slightly feral without caffeine. Which makes this more fun for me.”

Asher grabbed the coffee mug from her hand and set it down on the counter with a deliberate thunk. Then he crowded her back against the cabinets.

“I think,” he said, voice low and rough, “you want me to lose control.”

Devereaux smirked. “Depends. Are you going to do something about it this time, or just stand there growling like your emotionally unstable dog?”

His mouth crushed hers before she could finish the sentence.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like payback and tension and weeks of biting banter wrapped in silk.

When he finally pulled back, her eyes were wide, lips kiss-swollen, breath uneven.

Asher braced one hand beside her head. “You’re still replacing every shirt you dyed.”

Devereaux dragged her fingers down the front of his T-shirt. “Hmm. I like you in pink. It brings out the vein in your forehead.”

He growled.

She beamed.

And somewhere behind them, the dog barked in protest.

Asher didn’t care.

Not when she was still staring at him like a challenge. Not when the war between them felt a lot more like foreplay than battle now.

“Game on,” she whispered.

And this time, Asher smiled.
Dark. Dangerous. Completely gone for her.

“Game on, Dev.”

Then—without breaking eye contact—he reached out, slow and deliberate, and plucked the coffee mug from where he’d left it on the counter.

Devereaux blinked. “Excuse me?”

He took a long sip—longer than necessary—eyes locked with hers the entire time. Then he exhaled like a man reborn. “God, that’s good.”

Her mouth fell open. “Asher.”

He turned and started walking out of the kitchen like he hadn’t just committed a cardinal sin.

“You did not just steal my coffee.”

“I did,” he called over his shoulder, calm as ever. “And I’m drinking every last drop.”