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Mila raises her glass to join Anya’s, and Katia and I immediately pick up ours.

“To thriving,” Mila toasts, her voice ringing with joy.

“To thriving,” we repeat in unison.

Our glasses meet in the center of the table with a clean, crystal ring that echoes through the restaurant.

The sharp blade glides through the celery like it’s butter. Zevran has his suit jacket off, his black dress shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows to reveal heavily muscled forearms, the dark tattoos lining his skin contrasting sharply against the white marble of the kitchen island.

“You had a good time, then?” Zevran asks as he drops fresh basil leaves into a bowl for me.

I smile, continuing to slice the vegetables. My appetite isn’t huge after our three-course meal, but I’ve been wanting to try this garlic shrimp risotto recipe, and I enjoy keeping my hands busy.

The second I walked through the front door, Zevran looked at me the way he always does whenever we’ve been apart. His pale eyes swept over me, quick and comprehensive, checking that I was whole and unhurt. For the past half hour, he hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off me.

“A wonderful time,” I tell him, warmth blooming in my chest. “And you were mentioned in gushing, grateful tones.”

A sleek smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I thought I felt my ears burning once or twice.”

“That would have been because of me, declaring how much I love you,” I say, tilting my mouth up to his.

He leans in immediately, pressing a lingering kiss to my lips.

When he pulls back, my smile fades slightly as I remember the conversation at the table, and how I gave my new friends a sanitized version of my rescue.

“What’s wrong, printsessa?” Zevran asks, catching the shift in my expression.

I hesitate, resting the knife against the cutting board. “Would you be disappointed in me if I didn’t tell them everything about what happened? Like how I stole your car and ran back to Troy.”

He folds his arms across his broad chest, the thick, corded muscles of his forearms flexing. “Not one bit.”

I blink at him, surprised. “Really? But why?”

“Those women have had months to process what happened to them,” he explains, his eyes holding mine with unwavering gentleness. “They’ve practiced telling their stories and they know exactly how they want to be heard. You’ll get there in your own time. Or maybe you’ll never tell them the darker details, and that’s fine too. No doubt they held back things from you today. Small things they wish they’d done differently, or things they carry shame over. That’s their right, and it’s yours too.”

I hadn’t considered that. The anxious knot in my stomach eases slightly. “That’s true. But I would like to tell them. When I’m ready.”

Zevran offers me a tender smile. “The fact that you sat at a table and talked about it at all is huge, Cora. Be proud of you. I am.”

I turn back to the pan, stirring the simmering Arborio rice, the warmth of his praise glowing in my chest.

“Mila’s turning twenty-six soon,” I say brightly. “She’s having a birthday dinner at a rooftop restaurant downtown. She invited me, and I said yes.”

“Good.” He reaches past my shoulder to steal a plump shrimp from the prep bowl. I swat at his hand with a smile, but he catches my wrist with lightning speed, his hand swallowing mine. The rough callus of his thumb traces the beat of my pulse before he pulls my hand up and presses a slow, heavy kiss into my palm. His eyes burn down into mine with searing intensity. I feel so surrounded and safe by his presence that it almost aches.

“Her husband sounds nice,” I continue, my voice a little breathless as he releases my wrist. “Mila said he’s had some struggles in his past, but he’s been clean and in AA for three years. She lit up just talking about him.”

“It’s good progress,” Zevran says offhandedly, turning back to the basil. “Especially after his drunk-driving charges.”

The wooden spoon scrapes to a dead halt against the bottom of the pan.

I turn around slowly. “What are you talking about?”

Zevran’s expression doesn’t change at all. “Jonah Wilde. Drunk-driving charges at nineteen, then again at twenty-one. The second time resulted in a collision where another driver suffered a broken collarbone. He served eight months.” He recites the details like he’s reading off a police record. “He’s been clean since his release, as you said.”

“Mila didn’t tell me any of that,” I say, a frown forming between my brows. “She only told me about the AA.”

“No,” Zevran agrees. “She wouldn’t. Not to someone she met two hours ago.”