DON’T SAY MAFIA

THE WRONG MADE MEN BOOK 1

C.R. JANE

Don’t Say Mafia by C. R. Jane

Copyright © 2026 by C. R. Jane

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, and except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

For permissions contact:

crjaneauthor@gmail.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design: Opulent Designs

Photographer: Michelle Lancaster

Editing: Stephanie H./Hannotek, Ink

Poker chip and gun image: Vecteezy.com

THE WRONG MADE MEN WORLD SO FAR..

The Wrong Made Men Series

Don’t Say Mafia

Don’t Say I Do

The Wrong Player Series

The Wrong Quarterback

The Wrong Play

Merry Me

The Wrong Catch

The Wrong Call

The Pucking Wrong Series

The Pucking Wrong Number

The Pucking Wrong Guy

A Pucking Wrong Christmas

The Pucking Wrong Date

The Pucking Wrong Man

The Pucking Wrong Rookie

Blackwood Cowboys Series

Dark Horse

Devil’s Knot

*Please note, these are all standalones that can be enjoyed individually.

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For the girls who think losing him means losing

everything.

Sometimes it’s just the beginning.

PLEASE READ…

Dear readers,

Please be aware this is a dark mafia romance and as such can and will contain possible triggering content. Elements of this story are purely fantasy, and should not be taken as acceptable behavior in real life. Our love interest is possessive, obsessive, and the perfect shade of red for all you red-flag renegades out there. There is absolutely no shade of pink involved when it comes to what Jagger Thatcher will do to get his girl.

Themes include organized crime and mafia activity, stalking, kidnapping and coercion, manipulation and morally gray behavior, violence and graphic injury, murder and death, dark obsessions, references to emotional abuse in relationships (not involving Jagger Thatcher), dubious consent, somnophilia, threats of sexual violence and nonconsent (not involving Jagger Thatcher), physical abuse (not involving Jagger Thatcher), drug and alcohol use and addiction issues (not by the main characters), gambling environments, drugging, light captor/captivity, and sexually explicit scenes.

There are no harems, cheating, or sharing involved. Jagger Thatcher only has eyes for her.

Prepare to enter the world of the Vale Syndicate…you’ve been warned.

DON’T SAY MAFIA

The Vale Syndicate runs Las Vegas.

I know. I helped build it.

Behind the neon lights and luxury casinos is a kingdom built on secrets, violence, and loyalty written in blood.

Power like that changes a man.

Turns him ruthless.

Turns him into someone who takes what he wants and doesn’t apologize for it.

Then I met Eden Thorne.

She’s beautiful…married…and completely off-limits.

She’s everything a man like me should stay away from.

The problem?

Men who build criminal empires don’t walk away from the things they want.

And once I decided Eden belonged to me…

There was no world where I was giving her back.

Not even to her husband.

Guilty as Sin?

Taylor Swift

Happier Than Ever

Billie Eilish

Smells Like Teen Spirit

Malia J

Love song

Lana Del Rey

Curiosity

Bryce Savage

LET THE WORLD BURN

Chris Grey, G-Eazy, Ari Abdul

Swim

Chase Atlantic

over me

Camylio

Can’t Help Falling in Love

Elvis Presley

Stupid Megan Moroney

Myles Smith

More Than a Friend

girli

All For Us

Labrinth, Zendaya

Never Tear Us Apart

Bishop Briggs

Criminal

Britney Spears

Call Out My Name

The Weekend

Let Me Love You

Ariana Grande

Getaway Car

Taylor Swift

Listen to the full playlist here.

“It is better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.”

Paradise Lost by John Milton, 1667

PROLOGUE

EDEN

“Fucking whore!”

John’s voice cut through the thin walls, loud enough that even with my bedroom door shut it found me anyway. It always did. I lay on my back on my sagging mattress, staring at the familiar brown water stain on the ceiling where the roof leaked every time it rained. The stain had spread over the years, looking more like a giant coffee spill than anything else, and I’d spent so many nights tracing its edges with my eyes that I knew every crooked line by heart.

“John, please, just calm down—” my mother pleaded. Her voice was pitched higher than usual, the way it always got when she was trying not to cry.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, you stupid bitch!” my stepfather snapped.

Something hit the wall hard enough to make the light bulb hanging from my ceiling rattle. I didn’t flinch. I’d learned a long time ago which sounds were worth reacting to and which ones were just part of the background noise of this place.

I folded my hands over my stomach and tried to breathe the way I was supposed to. Slow. Even. Controlled. The type of breathing they drill into you in every mandatory counseling session after you miss too many days of school and the attendance office starts whispering “troubled” behind your back.

It never worked, but for some reason I still tried it. Every time.

The trailer shrank with every shouted word until it felt like the walls were closing in around me and I was about to suffocate from all the heat and rage in the air that had nowhere to escape.

“You’re fucking trash!” John roared in an ugly, slurred voice, each syllable crashing into the next. “You’re lucky I even fuck you!”

“John, I’m sorry,” my mother whimpered, and I tried to ignore the desperate way she said it.

She’d never leave him, no matter how vicious he got. She’d just slip out later to find one of the neighbors to touch her softly enough to numb the hurt for a night. Then she’d come right back to this trailer, to him, like it was the only thing she was ever going to get. Like it was all she deserved.

I closed my eyes. I could picture it without looking: John would be red-faced and swaying, a beer bottle hanging from his hand, the neck of it slick with condensation and his sweat. My mom would be standing close to him, her hands up like she could ward him off with the same gesture she used to use on me when I was little and had scraped my knee. And her voice would keep getting smaller and smaller until it was barely there at all.

Another crash followed.

It sounded like it was something metal this time, maybe the cheap lamp on the side table. My mom cried out, startled, and my whole body locked up for a second, waiting for the next sound. The one that would tell me whether it was just yelling tonight or whether it was about to turn into something else.

John’s voice dropped low, filled with that special kind of meanness he saved for when he wanted the words to cut deeper. “You think I won’t touch that little bitch of yours next?” he sneered. “Eden walks around like she’s untouchable. Maybe I’ll go in there tonight and remind her that she’s not. Maybe I’ll show her exactly what happens when she keeps acting like she’s better than everyone.”

My blood turned to ice.

It didn’t matter what my mother said or didn’t say in response. She wouldn’t stop him. I rolled onto my side and reached under the bed, my fingers brushing dust and grit before closing around my sneakers. I slipped them on and tied the laces tight so they wouldn’t slip off if I had to run. They were too big on me, like every other secondhand thing I owned.

The shouting kept going, and a minute later glass shattered somewhere down the hall. There was a brief lull before my stepdad’s ugly howl filled the trailer and I exhaled through my nose again. My mother had good aim when she was scared. Beer bottles were her weapon of choice, and she usually had lots of those around to choose from. John would be fine. He might have bruised pride or a cut, but neither was anything new.

Neither were the bruises on my mom and me.

I listened for another moment to make sure John wasn’t about to burst into the room, and then I stood up on my mattress and eased the window open, careful with the latch. The muggy night air pressed in right away, clinging to my skin. It smelled like hot dirt and gasoline and grass that had baked all day in the sun.

I swung one leg over the sill, then the other, bracing my hands against the frame as I lowered myself down. My shoes met the ground with a muted thump, and I stayed there for a moment, listening.

Inside, his voice still rumbled, but it was already fading, swallowed by walls and distance. Outside, the trailer park carried on as if nothing were happening. A television murmured a few lots down. A dog barked once before settling. Cicadas hummed in the trees, steady and unbothered. It was almost funny how the world always kept going, how it never paused, like it didn’t notice that inside one thin-walled trailer, entire lives were falling apart.

I pulled the window down most of the way, leaving it cracked just enough to climb back in later, then straightened and stepped away from the trailer.

The night wrapped around me, and I started walking along the narrow road that cut through the park. I didn’t have a destination in mind; I never did. I walked because walking meant I could numb my brain and ignore the way my days and nights always followed the same script. It meant I didn’t have to think about how easy it would be to become my mother one day, telling myself it wasn’t that bad, that it was just how love worked. Walking felt like the only thing that didn’t belong to him or to them or to the future everyone in that trailer seemed determined to hand me.

The asphalt was patched and cracked under my shoes, glowing faintly under flickering streetlights that buzzed like they were tired of their job. I passed trailers that each looked like variations of the same life. Porch lights left on. Windows glowing blue from televisions no one was really watching. Someone’s laundry hanging limp on a line, forgotten. The air stuck to my skin, every breath tasting like a summer that refused to end.

A familiar laugh drifted toward me, and I looked over and saw a group of guys from school lounging near the edge of one of the lots, clustered around a beat-up truck with its tailgate down. Smoke curled up from between their fingers, the skunky smell of it cutting through the night. They were loud in the careless way boys get when they think no one can touch them.

One of them spotted me.

“Eden!” The name came out mocking, drawn out like they were tasting it. “Come over here and suck my dick like your mom does!”

The others laughed, and one of them slapped the tailgate hard enough to make it rattle. I didn’t slow down or look over to see which one had said it. I kept my eyes straight ahead and shoved my hands deeper into the sleeves of my hoodie, pretending their words couldn’t actually hurt me.

There was a thud and a grunt, the sound of someone taking a punch, but I kept walking, and by the time I reached the end of the road, their laughter had already faded.

The park sat a little apart from everything else, a sad patch of grass and rusted metal tucked between the trailers and the highway. The playground equipment was old and sun bleached; the paint on everything chipped away to bare steel where too many hands had grabbed on. During the day, kids swarmed it. At night, though, it belonged to no one.

I stepped onto the packed dirt and headed straight for the swings.

It creaked softly when I sat, and the chains were cold against my palms. I pushed off with my toes, just enough to sway back and forth, a gentle rhythm that matched my breathing. The ground slid beneath me in slow arcs, forward and back, and then forward again.

Above me, the sky stretched wide and endless, stars scattered carelessly across as though someone had knocked over a jar of light. I tipped my head back and stared, letting my thoughts drift the way the swing did, aimless but steady. Out here it was easier to imagine . . . more. More of what, I wasn’t sure. But at least more than this.

“You couldn’t sleep, either?”

I startled, my head snapping forward, and I immediately smiled when I saw my best friend, Ryan. He was standing a few feet away, a cigarette burning between his fingers like he needed something to do with his hands. He took one last drag and flicked it to the ground, crushing it out with the heel of his shoe before looking back up at me. The streetlight behind him caught his face just enough for me to see it clearly. The familiar crooked smile. The softness around his mouth that made him look kinder than most people in this place ever tried to be.

My smile dimmed, though, when I saw that his eyes were red rimmed and glassy, a glaze that had nothing to do with nicotine.

“You’re smoking now?” I asked, not bothering to hide the disappointment in my voice.

He winced, clearly expecting me to say that. Then he shrugged one shoulder and smiled apologetically. “I was just taking the edge off,” he said.

I sighed and leaned back against the chains, letting the swing creak beneath me. “You know that’s what they all say.”

He scrunched his nose up at that. “Thanks for that,” he murmured, shaking his head as he sat down on the swing next to me. “Rough night?” he asked.

I snorted softly. “When isn’t it?”

He nodded, not needing to ask any questions to know exactly what I’d meant. Questions were kind of unnecessary when almost every night was the same.

“My dad threw another chair,” he offered after a second, his tone as casual as a weather update. “He missed her this time and instead put another hole in the wall. Mom cried anyway, like he’d actually ruined something nice.”

I was able to picture it easily. His parents’ fights never stayed behind thin walls or locked doors. They bled out onto the lawn, spilled across the cracked driveway, and rolled into the street until the whole neighborhood had to notice. Red and blue lights were a regular guest outside their trailer, and everyone was used to seeing bored, irritated cops leaning against their cruisers, taking statements they’d taken a dozen times before and weren’t going to do anything about.

Nothing ever changed.

This park was where we’d first met because of it.

Two kids slipping out of their houses on the same night, chased by different voices that sounded exactly the same. I’d been sitting on this very swing with my knees pulled to my chest, staring at the sky and pretending I wasn’t shaking when he’d appeared out of the dark with a split lip and his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

He’d dropped onto the swing next to me without saying a word.

Neither of us had asked why the other was there. We just sat in the dark and listened to the night instead of the yelling, the chains creaking softly as if they were keeping our secrets for us.

After that, it became our place.

Whenever things got too loud, too ugly . . . too hard to breathe through, we ended up here. Two lives running parallel, crashing into the same quiet patch of ground over and over again. I opened my eyes wider and looked at him now, older than that first time we’d met but still carrying the same weight on his shoulders.

Some things didn’t change.

“I think she’d started throwing beer bottles right before I snuck out,” I finally muttered. “Unfortunately, it didn’t knock him out.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sort that slipped out when something wasn’t funny at all but you laughed anyway because the alternative was screaming. “Classic.”

We fell into an easy silence after that, one that had been built from years of shared understanding and mutual exhaustion. The swing carried me back and forth while Ryan leaned back to look at the sky.

“Sometimes I think,” he said slowly, “that if I just stare at it long enough, something better will drop out of it.”

I tilted my head, trying to imagine what he meant. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “A sign. A map. A different life.”

My chest tightened. “Yeah,” I murmured. “That’d be nice.” I didn’t know why I suddenly had the urge to cry.

The swing slowed, and my toes dragged lines through the dirt.

Ryan’s hand found mine where it rested on the chain, and his fingers laced through as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d always been like that, easy with touch and quick to offer comfort without making a big deal about it. I still blushed, though.

It was stupid for me to act like that. This was Ryan. He’d held my hand crossing streets when we were kids. He’d hugged me whenever I cried. None of this was new.

It still made my heart stutter.

We sat like that, hands linked, the swings barely moving now, the chains clicking softly with each shift of weight. The park was quiet except for the distant hum of the highway and the chorus of insects that never seemed to sleep.

“Someday,” he said suddenly, “I’m getting us out of here.”

I turned to look at him.

“I promise,” he added, his eyes earnest despite the red still lingering there. “I don’t know how yet. But I will. This place doesn’t get to keep us.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to build a whole future out of the promise, to let it carry me somewhere far from thin walls and broken glass and nights that chased me into the dark.

He didn’t let go of my hand when I nodded. If anything, his grip tightened a little, like he was anchoring the promise in place.

“We’ll do everything we’ve ever dreamed,” he continued. “College, a job, something. Anywhere that isn’t this. I don’t care if it takes years. I don’t care if I have to work every shitty job they throw at me. I’m not staying here, and I’m not leaving you behind.”

I swallowed, my throat feeling scratchy.

Ryan didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He never had. When we were kids and he said he’d meet me at the bus stop, he was there even in the rain. When he said he’d walk me home, he did, even if it meant getting yelled at for being late. When he said he’d come back after his dad took off with him for a week, he showed up with a bruise on his jaw and a grin like nothing in the world could touch him.

He’d never lied to me. Not once . . . and that seemed suddenly dangerous. Because I wanted to believe him so badly it scared me. I wanted to wrap myself around the idea and let it pull me through the years ahead, through the nights like this one where everything felt impossible and permanent.

“You don’t have to save me,” I said, even as the thought of it spread through my chest.

“I know,” he replied. “But I want to.”

The swing creaked softly as we continued to stare at each other. I hadn’t had a lot of luck in my life, but finding a boy who knew every ugly part of me and stayed anyway suddenly seemed like I’d struck it big.

“I swear,” he said, lifting our joined hands slightly. “Someday we’re going to look back on this place and laugh. We’ll have our own place. It will be quiet. No yelling. No broken shit. Just . . . peace.”

My chest ached with it. With the wanting. With the hope I tried so hard not to let take root because hope hurt when it died.

For a second, neither of us moved and the night seemed to hold its breath with us, the swing barely rocking, the chains whispering as if they were being careful not to interrupt something fragile. Then Ryan leaned forward.

The kiss was soft and tentative, over almost as soon as it began, his mouth brushing mine like he was asking a question rather than trying to answer one. There was no rush, no urgency, just a careful press of lips that caught me completely off guard.

I froze, not because it felt wrong, and not because I didn’t want it, but because I hadn’t seen it coming at all.

He pulled back immediately, his brown eyes wide and searching my face, his hand loosening around mine, ready to let go if I needed him to. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” He swallowed, and for the first time I caught a hint of nerves in him. “Is that okay? I mean . . . are you okay?”

My lips still tingled where his had been, and butterflies were moving through me in a stunned rush. A hard, uneven pounding filled my chest, so loud I was sure he could hear it or even feel it through the chain that must have been vibrating faintly beneath my palm.

I stared at him, at the boy who had always been my constant. My safe place. My only good thing.

“I just . . . You surprised me,” I said, shaking my head slightly as I tried to steady myself.

His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That makes sense.”

I huffed out a breath that turned into a small, shaky laugh. “You could’ve warned me.”

He smiled then—soft and relieved and a little crooked. “Kinda ruins it if I schedule it.”

That earned a real smile from me, the tension in my chest easing enough to let the feeling in instead of shoving it away. I pressed my lips together, still aware of him in a way I hadn’t been before, like something had shifted slightly out of place and couldn’t be put back the same way.

“It was okay,” I said finally. Then, quieter, “It was . . . nice.”

His eyes warmed at that, something hopeful flickering there, careful but bright. He squeezed my hand again. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I wanted it to be . . . nice.”

The swing creaked as I leaned back, tipping my face up to the sky again, to where the stars were still scattered carelessly above us. It seemed like they should be different now, because I suddenly felt so different.

Hope was dangerous. I knew that.

But sitting there with Ryan beside me, his hand still in mine, his promise still hanging between us, I let it stay anyway.

Just for the night.

CHAPTER 1

EDEN

FIVE YEARS LATER . . .

The bedroom door creaked when I pushed it open, and I stopped short when I saw Ryan was home.

He was sprawled on the couch, passed out, one arm hanging toward the floor, the other bent awkwardly across his chest. His shoes were still on, and his jacket was draped over the armrest like it had been dropped mid-motion. Ryan’s clothes were rumpled, and the air around him carried the faint scent of stale beer and whatever bar he’d closed down.

My chest sank.

He hadn’t come home last night. I’d gone to bed alone, telling myself not to jump to conclusions, telling myself he’d probably crashed at a friend’s place, that his phone dying didn’t mean anything. I’d taken a shower this morning, letting the steam fog up the tiny bathroom mirror as I rehearsed what I’d say when he finally walked through the door.

Words were failing me now, though.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the sight of him like it might rearrange itself if I stared hard enough. The living room was barely big enough for the couch and the wobbly coffee table we’d found on the curb last year. Sunlight slipped through the thin blinds, landing right on his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched there and the fact that he’d seemed to age ten years since we’d moved to Las Vegas.

I shouldn’t have felt any disappointment at this point. But I did anyway. It seemed to be an inevitability nowadays.

There was a version of him who would’ve crawled into bed beside me when he’d gotten home. A version of him that would have murmured an apology into my hair and made a joke to soften the landing.

This wasn’t that version.

Exhaling tiredly, I wondered when our apartment had stopped feeling like home and instead turned into something I had to brace myself for on a daily basis.

I swiped at my face with the back of my hand, annoyed when my fingers came away damp, and turned away before I could stand there any longer. The kitchen was only a few steps away and barely deserving the name since it was nothing but a narrow counter wedged against the wall, a faucet that dripped unless you twisted the handle exactly right . . . and a small fridge and range that always sounded like they were dying.

My mood didn’t improve when I opened the fridge and saw nothing but empty shelves staring back at me. Hadn’t there been some lo mein in here when I’d gone to bed?

I shut the door harder than I meant to and glanced toward the sink. The plate from last night sat there, smeared with dried sauce, a fork tossed beside it. Of course. He’d eaten the last of it.

Pressing my forehead against the cool metal of the fridge for a second, I tried to convince myself that not eating today wouldn’t be the worst thing. After all, I’d skipped a day of food before. More times than I could count, as a matter of fact. Still, I opened the cabinet and checked that, too, even though I already knew what I would find.

Staring at the salt shaker and the mismatched mugs, my stomach clenched, not just from hunger but from how familiar this felt. Glancing at the clock, I did the math. There wasn’t time to go to the store . . . not that I had any extra money for a grocery run even if I did.

Fuck.

I straightened and smoothed my hair back, swallowing the ache in my throat along with the hunger before grabbing my bag and heading for the door. I passed the couch carefully so I wouldn’t wake him and braced myself for another day that would demand more than I had to give.

The door was halfway open when he stirred. I froze with my hand on the knob, and slowly, I turned back.

“Eden,” he murmured, my name slipping from him in a sleepy rasp. His head rolled slightly on the cushion, and his brow creased before he went still again, his breath evening out like nothing had happened.

For a second, hearing him say my name had softened something in me. It was an unfortunate reflex . . . muscle memory from a lifetime of believing he was the one place that couldn’t hurt me. The reality of him always came back into focus, though. The couch. The clothes. The smell. The empty apartment and the empty fridge and all the empty fucking promises.

Another tear slipped free before I could stop it, tracing the same path as the first traitorous one.

He’d once told me we’d have a quiet place and peace. He’d whispered vows under stars and rusted swings. He’d sworn we’d get out. That this life wouldn’t touch us. That we wouldn’t turn into the people we came from.

I’d believed him then, because that Ryan had never lied to me.

I didn’t believe him now.

I stood there a moment longer, staring at him longingly the way you did when you knew someone was slipping away, and I hated myself for being the fool back then who had never imagined he’d break his promises to me.

Youth makes everything feel permanent. It wraps promises in gold and tells you they’ll last forever, because you’re too young to understand how easily forever can crack.

I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me, and I didn’t try to do it quietly this time.

Smoke and bleach clung to the hallway, the chlorine scent lingering without ever managing to make anything feel clean. The heat met me head-on, already scorching and relentless this early in the morning. By the time I got home, the apartment would feel like an oven. The window unit would rattle in protest, same as always, and quit the second the temperature climbed too high to handle.

Outside, the complex sagged under years of neglect. The stucco was cracked and stained, and the railings were rusted through. This was the part of Vegas they didn’t put on postcards. Here there was no neon or glamour. There was just concrete and desperation and people doing their best to survive.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and started walking, passing a man slumped against the wall in the stairwell, his head lolled back, mouth open, chest rising shallowly. A syringe still rested in his arm, forgotten or abandoned, I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t look too closely. Looking too closely invited things you couldn’t unsee. I stepped around him like I’d learned to do, careful not to brush against him.

This was my normal now.

The street was already awake in all the wrong ways. A rusted Chevy idled at the curb, bass thumping through its open windows like a heartbeat with arrhythmia. The driver had his seat reclined so far back he was practically lying down, with one arm dangling out the door, and a lit cigarette that glowed red every time he took a drag. His stare followed my ass as I walked by, and for the millionth time I wished I was allowed to wear a longer skirt during my shift.

Farther down the block, a woman screamed from a second-floor balcony. “You piece of shit, get back here!” Glass shattered, and a man laughed before he yelled something filthier in return. The argument didn’t stop; it just kept rolling, louder, uglier, like they were trying to outmatch each other in how much damage they could do with words alone.

I kept my head down and my eyes forward, placing one foot in front of the other, hoping I could go invisible if I just didn’t look at anyone.

There had been a time Ryan wouldn’t have let me do this alone.

He used to walk me to the bus stop every morning, no matter how tired he was, no matter how late he’d worked the night before. He’d stand there with his hands shoved in his pockets, scanning the street like he was on guard duty, waiting until the bus pulled up and I was safely inside before heading back home. He’d told me it was stupid, that the world shouldn’t be this way, but until it changed, he wasn’t taking chances with me.

Now the sidewalk stretched empty beside me.

The bus stop came into view in all its glory, the metal bench warped and tagged. I took my place beside it and folded my arms, wishing that it didn’t feel as though a million eyes were currently crawling across my skin.

I swallowed the unease in my throat and told myself the same thing I always did.

I will be fine.

I always was.

Even if this wasn’t the life I’d been promised.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of me, and its doors folded open with a tired sigh. I climbed on and smiled at the driver out of reflex, swiping the pass my work had given me when I picked up enough hours to qualify. The machine beeped and flashed green, and I moved down the aisle to take the same seat I always did, halfway back on the right.

Routine was what kept me upright.

As the bus lurched forward and the city slid past in washed-out colors, my thoughts drifted where they always did when I let them. Back to how we’d gotten here. Back to the version of Ryan who had sat on that rusted swing years ago and promised me more.

Vegas had been his idea.

He’d said it with that hopeful look in his eyes, the one that used to undo me every time. He talked about better jobs and more opportunity, about a fresh start that didn’t include broken windows and flashing police lights. I’d said yes immediately and ran to the courthouse with him to get married before we left. I didn’t have a pretty dress, and we didn’t have any guests. But his hand shaking a little as he slid the cheap ring on my finger had been enough. I’d believed he understood how big the promise was.

I’d believed him with my whole heart because it felt like everything we’d survived had finally led somewhere.

After that, we had packed everything we owned into his car and drove off with the kind of excitement that makes it feel like a great thing was just around the corner.

And at first, it had been good.

We’d had our own apartment. It was small, but it was ours. He used to kiss me in the kitchen like we’d already made it, as though signing that lease had been the first real proof that we were different from where we came from. He told me it was just the beginning.

It had seemed like the truth when he’d come home one night grinning like a kid and said he’d gotten a job offer, one with good money and benefits. The company even paid for night classes so he could finally go to school like he’d planned.

Vegas sparkled at first. Even the rough parts felt temporary when we were new enough not to see the cracks. Ryan worked during the day and went to class at night, coming home exhausted but proud of himself. We ate cheap takeout on the floor and laughed about how one day we’d have real furniture, like that was just another milestone waiting for us.

But that was all before he’d become friends with some guys at work.

It started small with a few hands of cards after work and a drink here and there. He said it helped him unwind, that he’d earned it after working all day. I didn’t push back. I wanted to be the easy part of his life, not something else he had to fight.

Before long he was skipping classes, though. It was just one night at first . . . and then it was another. Ryan had said he’d catch up, and that school wasn’t going anywhere. But the cards turned into longer nights and the losses got bigger. The excuses came even faster.

Then he lost his job.

Ryan had come home talking too fast about how it was temporary and something better was going to come along. This was just a setback. I nodded and told him it was okay, that we’d figure it out together somehow.

But we never did.

I was the one who worked extra shifts at two different jobs. I was the one who smiled until my face hurt and pretended my feet didn’t ache. I was the one who cried and stressed about bills while Ryan stayed up late, chasing the big one he was sure would fix everything if he could just land it.

The bus rattled along, sunlight flashing through the windows, and I stared out at a city that seemed to glitter for everyone else. I adjusted my bag on my lap and straightened my shoulders, and that terrible thought slipped in before I could stop it.

Maybe I had turned out just like my mother . . .

By the time my shift started, I’d locked all my emotions down.

My smile was in place, my shoulders were back, and my tray was balanced just right. I moved through the casino the way you learn to move through any place that always wants something from you. Aware without looking nervous. Friendly without offering more than necessary. The floor vibrated beneath my feet, and lights flashed overhead as machines chimed in uneven bursts among the voices rising and falling in a constant artificial swell that never let you forget exactly where you were.

I was touched constantly. Fingers brushed down my wrist when I set down a drink. A hand lingered too close to my hip as I leaned away. Comments were murmured like they were doing me a favor just by noticing me.

I ignored it all.

I smiled. I kept moving.

I survived.

The bar was my next stop, and I wove between tables and bodies to get there, the air saturated with alcohol, money, and desperation. Theo glanced up as I approached, already grinning like this was his favorite part of the night.

Theo was handsome in a very specific way. He had dark hair he kept a little too long because he thought it looked better on camera, and he had a restless edge that suggested auditions and rejection emails and side hustles he swore were temporary. He bartended at night and chased acting roles during the day, always convinced his break was one good casting call away.

And who knew, maybe it was. We couldn’t all be as unlucky as me.

“Tell me you’re finally going to put me out of my misery,” he said as he slid the glasses I needed toward me.

“Never,” I replied, lifting the tray.

He leaned in, his elbows braced on the bar, and lowered his voice as though we were sharing something secret. “One of these nights, you’re going to say yes and finally let me take you out for a drink instead of carrying them. It’s my dream in life.”

I didn’t miss a beat. “My answer’s not going to change, Theo. You should get a better dream.”

He sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “I keep hoping you’ll change your mind.”

“Hope is dangerous,” I said lightly. “Someone should have told you that at some point.”

He laughed because he thought I was joking and shook his head. “You’re going to be the death of me, Eden.”

I smiled politely and turned, not looking back even though I knew he was watching me walk away.

No matter how things felt lately, no matter how disappointed or worn thin I was, there were lines I didn’t cross. I wasn’t going to become someone I didn’t recognize just because my life hadn’t ended up like I wanted it to.

“Eden!”

I barely had time to pivot before Leigh practically collided with me, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, her ponytail swinging like she was powered by pure caffeine and chaos. Leigh was friendly with everyone, incapable of whispering, and always five seconds away from spilling gossip she somehow collected on a daily basis, even though I was pretty sure most of our coworkers knew not to tell her anything.

“Oh my gosh,” she stage-whispered, gripping my arm. “You are not going to believe this.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Believe what?”

She bounced on her toes. “The hottest man alive just sat down in the high roller room.”

I snorted. “That’s a bold claim.”

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “He’s tall and blond . . . and expensive—looking,” she said with a wink. “All my favorite flavors in one.”

“And very unhealthy-sounding,” I said dryly.

She waved me off. “Everyone’s freaking out. Dealers. Security. Even Mark at the pit stopped pretending he doesn’t care about anything. He must be someone important.” She leaned in close like this was all classified information. “I’m telling you,” she whispered, “if I don’t end up in the high roller room tonight, I might die. I just need one excuse. One drink run. One accidental bump. Men like that love a good meet-cute.”

I snorted. “I’m pretty sure men like that actually love not being bothered.”

She waved me off. “That’s quitter talk. I just have to get in the room. Once I’m in the room, it’s game over.”

“That’s not how rooms work,” I said.

“That is exactly how high roller rooms work,” she insisted. “You don’t understand. This man looks as if he could buy the building and forget he did it. I am not passing that up.”

She was mid-rant, already plotting her angles, when someone stopped beside us.

“Eden.” Carl’s voice cut cleanly through Leigh’s enthusiasm. She startled and pushed out her breasts as though a switch had been flipped when he appeared. I was pretty sure they were sleeping together, but Leigh tended to be like that with every man . . . so I wasn’t quite sure.

“Yes?” I asked.

Carl, the casino manager, didn’t even give Leigh a glance. His attention was fixed on me, sharp and businesslike, and I immediately straightened, thinking whatever he had to say had to be important. “I need you in the high roller room.”

Leigh froze.

I blinked. “Me?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re steady. You know how to behave with our biggest VIPs. This guest expects professionalism and discretion.”

Leigh’s head snapped toward me so fast I was surprised she didn’t get whiplash. Her wide eyes locked on to mine immediately, and her brows lifted just slightly as if she could force the word no into my mouth without saying it out loud.

“I already have a section,” I said lamely as Leigh continued to try to stare holes in my head.

“I’ll have it covered,” Carl replied smoothly. “I need you at your best for this. Be polite. Agreeable. Make sure he has everything he wants . . . before he wants it.”

“Of course,” I said, ignoring Leigh this time. Even if I wasn’t sure exactly what Carl meant by that last part. As much as I liked my coworker, the tips were much better in the high roller room, and with how things were going in my life, I couldn’t afford to say no. I also couldn’t afford for Carl to fire me because I’d said no. So there was also that.

He nodded once, satisfied, and walked away without another word.

The second he was gone, Leigh stared at me in open betrayal. “You’re kidding me,” she hissed. “You’re going in there?”

“I didn’t ask to,” I said, shifting the tray on my shoulder.

“But I was going to get in there,” she protested. “I was this close.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You were standing by the bar, talking to me.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That was step one.”

I sighed, already exhausted as I glanced toward the velvet rope that marked the high roller room. Curiosity tugged at me for half a second before the old, heavy weight of responsibility settled right back in my chest like it had never left.

I hadn’t eaten. I’d barely slept. I was running on caffeine and obligation and the quiet determination not to let today break me. “I’m just serving drinks,” I said. “It’s not going to be nearly as exciting as you think.”

Leigh groaned as if she hadn’t heard me. “If he proposes, I will never forgive you.”

On that note, it was time to get back to work. “Good thing I’m already married and can save all the proposals for you,” I told her over my shoulder as I headed toward the back of the casino, already slipping into the version of myself that smiled just enough and gave nothing away.

Whoever this man was, he was just another customer.

And I was very, very tired.

CHAPTER 2

JAGGER

“Are you fucking serious?”

The pissed-off words hit me like a slap of cold air, yanking me out of the black hole I’d apparently fallen into. My eyes snapped open. The ceiling of the penthouse suite spun for a second before it steadied, and there she was, scrambling backward as she shoved at my chest like she wanted to launch herself into the next room. Her red hair was wild around her face, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were blazing with pure murder.

My dick was still half hard and heavy against my thigh, and my briefs were shoved down just enough to have let the monster out. I hadn’t even lasted long enough to finish before I’d passed out. She must have been really bad in bed. Usually I at least finished.

I yawned as I slipped off the unused condom. The yawn was loud, enough to crack my jaw and make my eyes water, and I stretched my arms over my head, my glorious silk sheets sliding down my hips while she stared at me as though I’d just kicked her puppy and laughed about it.

“You fell asleep,” she hissed in a rather lethal voice. “Mid-fuck. You actually fucking fell asleep.”

I blinked up at her, trying to give her an innocent-looking grin. “In my defense, it was a late night. Sometimes these things can’t be helped. I may look like a god, but I am in fact, merely a mortal.”

Her mouth dropped open, snapped shut, and then opened again like a fish that had been dragged up too fast. “You’re unbelievable!”

“You know, you’re actually not the first one to tell me that,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “You should think of it as a compliment, though. You had me so relaxed I passed out . . . baby.”

She made an incredulous scoff-laugh sound as she leapt off the bed and began hunting for her clothes. “‘Baby’? You don’t even know my fucking name, do you?”

Bending to grab one heel, she tipped forward, ass in the air, and yeah—my cock twitched because I wasn’t dead. But I reminded the big guy that she must have had the bedroom skills of someone who was dead if I fell asleep mid-fuck, so it didn’t need to pay attention.

“Of course I know your name . . . Lacy.” Or Susy. Was her name Susy? I knew it ended with a y.

Or at least I thought I knew.

“‘Lacy’?” she growled as her face turned a really unattractive purple color. “My name is Cleyo. Pronounced like yoyo.”

All right, so not a y, then. But also . . . who spelled their name Cleyo? Was she from Utah? Parents tended to give weird names there.

“Danny will call a car for you, Chloe,” I said, assuming I’d misheard her as I nodded toward the elevator.

She froze, straightened, and turned slowly, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I literally just told you my name.”

Okay, so I hadn’t misheard her. This was getting more awkward by the second.

“As I was saying, Danny downstairs will take care of you. Tell him you’re hungry, and he’ll make sure your driver stops by a Starbucks or something. I assume you like Starbucks?”

I wasn’t sure if girls named Cleyo liked Starbucks, but I didn’t want my driver to have to entertain this girl for hours, so it would have to do.

“You’re not even going to beg me to stay?” she asked, suddenly looking like she was going to cry.

Fucking hell.

A guy falls asleep once, and this is what he gets. At least I hadn’t answered a call while I was fucking her. I bet she would have freaked out even more about that.

I shrugged one shoulder. “Chloe—Cleyo I mean, look, you’re hot . . . you’re fun. But . . . it’s time to go. If you were looking for a guy who was going to beg you to stay, you picked the wrong penthouse.”

Her cheeks flushed darker, and I sat up, just in case she tried to stab me or something.

It had happened before.

She stepped closer and jabbed a finger at me. “You’re an arrogant prick.”

That was almost . . . nice compared to some other names that had been thrown my way.

“I am, you’re completely right,” I told her. “And you deserve better, Chloe. You deserve Prince Charming, who’s going to give you your happily ever after.”

The purple hue of her face went even darker, and I side-eyed my phone in case she passed out and I needed to call for a doctor.

That had also happened.

“Fuck you, Clyde Snow,” she growled before stomping toward the elevator and pounding on the button.

Clyde Snow. I’d forgotten I’d given her a fake name. I was beginning to wonder what I did remember from last night at this point.

“Have a good day!” I called as she stalked into the elevator.

All I got was an answering scream. Hopefully she didn’t go for the mirrors on the way down. Those were a bitch to get replaced. They were always back-ordered.

The elevator doors finally closed, and I settled back into my silk sheets. Well, that went well.

But at least on the plus side, my dick was now fully down.

The mattress dipped when I finally swung my legs over the side, the silk sheets sliding off me as if they were disappointed in my life choices right now. Maybe they should be disappointed; once again I’d gotten home around five in the morning and woken up in the evening to start another day. I was like a fucking vampire at this point.

I scrubbed a hand down my face and stood, my bones popping as I stretched, and I considered pants for half a second before dismissing the idea entirely. This was my place. Anyone who showed up unannounced got what they got.

The penthouse was quiet for exactly ten seconds, and then the elevator dinged. I didn’t bother turning around or reaching for clothes. I already knew who it was.

The doors slid open, and Maddox strolled in like he owned the place, a foil-wrapped burrito in one hand and his phone in the other, chewing as though he’d just won a small but meaningful victory.

He was, as always, in a suit. A perfectly tailored charcoal one that likely cost more than most people’s rent, a crisp white shirt beneath it, and a tie knotted with exacting precision despite the ridiculousness I was sure he’d gotten up to today. Maddox treated suits like a personal brand, the way some men treated cologne or watches.

Maddox’s hair was a deep, inky black, cut clean at the sides and swept back on top with a precision that looked effortless but definitely wasn’t. His eyes were a deep blue, sharp and watchful, and they always seemed two steps ahead of whatever room he walked into. They missed nothing, and women strangely obsessed over them.

Maddox chewed, swallowed, and then glanced around my penthouse with lazy disinterest, completely unfazed by the chaos, the silk sheets, or the fact that I was still naked.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said around a mouthful of eggs, as if this were the most normal scene in the world. “You look like shit.”

“You ever heard of calling before a visit?”

He snorted. “You ever heard of answering your phone when I do call? Well, I guess I didn’t call. But I did text. Twice. Which is basically the same thing. And then I got hungry.”

Maddox took another bite, his eyes sweeping the room, pausing briefly on the abandoned condom wrapper on the nightstand. The woman’s citrus perfume was still hanging in the air, and I’m sure he’d just noticed that as well.

“Fun night?” he asked, smirking.

“I fell asleep mid-sex,” I said flatly. “So I’m not sure it can be qualified as fun.”

He stopped chewing and then lost it completely. And it wasn’t like he just politely chuckled. He was laughing so hard that he fell forward, one hand braced on his knee, the burrito in his other hand waving dangerously close to the white rug that cost way too much to endure cheap salsa.

Maddox finally straightened, and I contemplated shooting him before deciding that would be more trouble than it was worth.

He took another bite of his burrito. “I guess that’s why you look cranky.”

I stared at him. Then I looked down at myself. Then back at him.

“Seriously?” I snapped. “Nothing?”

He squinted at me as if he was trying to figure out what I meant, then followed my line of sight and shrugged. “Oh. That.”

That.

My jaw tightened. “You’ve seen my dick so many times it doesn’t even register anymore?”

He hummed thoughtfully, still chewing. “I mean. At this point it’s basically furniture.”

“This happens too much,” I said flatly. “If my dick doesn’t even get a reaction out of you, something in my life has gone deeply wrong. Or your life. You’re seeing too many dicks. Although my dick is so impressive, even that shouldn’t change your reaction.”

Maddox smirked. “Relax. It’s not personal. You could be naked or in a tux. It would have the same effect.”

“Zero?” I pressed.

“Negative, actually,” he said. “I’m unaware of it.”

I grabbed a pair of pants off the chair and shoved my legs into them, yanking them up with more force than necessary. “You’re supposed to be impressed. Or uncomfortable. Or at least pretend you’ve never seen it before. That’s how a normal person would react to my dick.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he called after me, the words muffled and misshapen around a mouthful of burrito. Bits of tortilla and egg were no doubt threatening to make a break for it as he chewed like he’d never learned basic manners.

I stalked into my kitchen, the one I’d paid an absurd amount of money to have designed exactly the way I wanted it, stainless steel and marble everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one wall, the city laid out beneath them, and the counters ran wide and uninterrupted, big enough to host something impressive even if I rarely had anyone over to see it.

The fridge was stocked with meals that had been prepared for me because I’d learned a long time ago to focus on what I was good at. Cooking wasn’t one of those things.

I grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and downed half of it in one go.

My stomach chose that moment to betray me with a low, unmistakable growl. I paused and scowled at the countertop as if it had something to do with this. Then I glanced back over my shoulder because I had just realized whose burrito Maddox was eating.

Mrs. Bentley’s. My friend’s housekeeper made burritos so good that we literally flew them in from Dallas.

And I had just run out yesterday. Either that or my housekeeper, Mrs. Nesbitt, had thrown the last one out . . . She did tend to get jealous of Mrs. Bentley.

“Tell me you have another one of those,” I growled, suddenly feeling kind of desperate.

Maddox stopped chewing, and his eyes narrowed before he sighed like a man carrying the weight of the world and very inconvenient friendships. “I knew this day would come,” he muttered.

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to pull a second burrito out of there, right? When I asked if you had another one, I didn’t mean literally.”

He hesitated for exactly one second, clearly debating his life choices, before producing another foil-wrapped burrito with visible irritation.

“You’re welcome,” he said dryly, tossing it onto the counter. “A lesser friend might carry a pen. Maybe a spare charger or a gun. I, however, come prepared with breakfast.”

I snatched it off the counter in case he changed his mind and peeled back the foil. “I know you also have a gun in there, so what you just said doesn’t apply.”

He scoffed. “The gun is standard. The burrito is friendship. There’s a difference.”

I took a bite and hummed approvingly. “This tastes so good I’m not even mad anymore that you weren’t appropriately impressed by my dick.”

He shook his head and pulled out his phone, frowning as he read the screen. “One day I’m going to tell people this story, and I’m definitely going to mention how heroic I am,” he said distractedly.

I took another bite, finally feeling human again. “I’m sure you will,” I said around the mouthful. “Make sure you include the part where you risked your life transporting eggs and salsa in your pocket.”

Maddox snorted at that, and I grinned as I kept eating.

Why couldn’t women be as good as Mrs. Bentley’s burritos? I’d never fall asleep during sex if they were.

I was halfway through the burrito when Maddox cleared his throat. It was a subtle sound, but it was also the sound he made when the joking part of the conversation was over.

“Carl’s panicking,” he said.

I didn’t look up right away. “Carl wakes up panicking.”

“That’s true,” Maddox went on evenly.

I lifted my gaze. “So that’s why you’re here? To calm him down? You just decided to take a detour to my place first?”

“No.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m confused right now.”

“Carl is panicking,” Maddox replied. “He’s just not the reason I’m here.”

I swallowed, set the burrito down, and leaned back against the counter. “Continue, and maybe start with why you’re being deliberately vague right now. You’re losing hero points as we speak.”

He exhaled through his nose, his eyes flicking briefly toward the windows like the city might be listening. “Cruz wants you to handle something downstairs.”

I straightened at the mention of my best friend. “Cruz?”

“Yes.”

I picked up my glass and took a slow drink. “And why didn’t Cruz just text me?”

Maddox’s mouth twisted. “He’s busy.”

I lowered the glass. “Busy with what?”

He shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“That’s new.”

Maddox pursed his lips. “I know, and I’m not thrilled about it.”

I’m sure he wasn’t. Maddox was Cruz’s cousin. But even if they weren’t family, Maddox would still have been annoyed that he didn’t know what Cruz was up to. Besides keeping burritos in his suit pockets, Maddox also kept files on all of us in his head. He was the group stalker and prided himself on knowing everything about everyone in our group before anyone else did. If he didn’t know why Cruz was being vague, that meant Cruz was deliberately hiding something from him.

“Interesting,” I murmured.

Maddox’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

“It is when I’m being handed a mystery instead of an explanation,” I said. “All right, so what does Cruz want me to handle?”

Maddox typed something on his phone before answering. “There’s a guy in the high roller area,” he said. “He’s quite the spender . . . and he’s from Boston.”

Someone listening to the conversation would think we were discussing a VIP, but I knew exactly what Maddox was talking about. My lips curled in disgust. “He wouldn’t happen to be Irish, would he?”

Maddox’s mouth curved slowly. “You’re catching on.”

Ah.

That explained Carl’s panic.

Boston money wasn’t an issue. Boston Irish money, in our casino, was something else entirely.

A smile pulled at my mouth as I immediately turned and headed toward my bedroom. If I was going downstairs, I wasn’t doing it in sweats.

Three minutes later I came back out in a suit, and Maddox nodded approvingly. “Better.”

I adjusted my cuffs. “I’m glad I have your approval,” I drawled.

“Someone has to maintain group standards,” he said coolly as he stepped in front of me before I could pass.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Maddox?”

He smirked. “I just wanted to remind you that you can’t shoot someone in the high roller room.”

I stared at him, confused. “I know Cruz didn’t say that, because he shoots people literally everywhere.”

Maddox snorted. “He didn’t say that. But you still can’t shoot someone down there. I know you know that, but I’m saying it anyway because that smile is concerning.”

“It’s a very reasonable smile.”

“It’s the smile you had in Miami.”

My smile grew thinking about that particular trip. “That was different,” I said.

“Was it, Jagger?”

I held his gaze for a second longer, then brushed past him toward the elevator. “I’m not going to shoot anyone,” I said as the doors slid open.

“Good,” Maddox replied calmly. “Because that paperwork is exhausting.”

I winked at him as the doors began to close. “Thanks for the burrito,” I called.

He growled in response because he knew . . .

I was probably going to shoot someone down there.

CHAPTER 3

EDEN

Idrew in a slow breath, held it for a second longer than necessary, and then let it out through my nose as I stepped into the high roller room. No matter how many times I worked this section, a flicker of nerves always followed.

The air felt different in here, or maybe that was just me. I always felt it in my bones, the reminder that I didn’t belong at their table. I was here to serve them, to smile at the right moments, to anticipate what they wanted before they asked. I could move through the room without stumbling and balance a tray without spilling a drop, but there was still that part of me that felt like any second someone was going to stand up and call for the girl from the trailer park to be escorted out.

I adjusted my grip on the tray and started forward, and that was when I felt it . . . a faint awareness creeping along my spine, a prickle at the back of my neck that had nothing to do with noise or movement. It was the steady certainty of being watched. Not glanced at. Watched.

I forced myself to take another step before I looked up.

And that was a mistake.

Because the god of a man in front of me wasn’t just seated at the poker table. He was positioned. Like he’d picked that exact chair because it gave him the best line of sight.

Of the room.

Of me.

His blond hair was darker at the roots, swept back like someone’s hands had gripped it hard only minutes ago and ruined it on purpose. His suit was black and perfectly cut, fitted through the shoulders and tapered at the waist so it emphasized a build you don’t get from a desk job.

He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and covered in dark ink—layered tattoos that climbed from his wrist to where the shirt hid the rest, disappearing under the cuffs like secrets he hadn’t decided to share yet. The top two buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing the hollow of his throat, the edge of more ink crawling up his chest, and a silver chain that caught the low light every time he breathed.

He leaned back in his chair, one elbow draped over the armrest while his other hand rested on the green felt. His long fingers loosely circled a stack of black chips like he had nowhere else to be. The way he held himself was effortless, almost lazy, but there was nothing lazy about his body. There was tension in the way he occupied space. Like if he stood up, the entire table would adjust without him asking.

And he was staring at me.

Not scanning or checking out my body and moving on.

Staring.

He looked . . . momentarily unmoored. As if the room had narrowed down to one waitress holding a tray, and he had no idea why she suddenly mattered.

It was probably all in my head. It had to be. But my pulse was still hammering in my chest, and an uncomfortable heat was slipping lower before I crushed it down. I forced myself to keep moving, reminding my body that this was ridiculous, that he was just another high roller in a tailored suit with too much money.

Still, his gaze didn’t waver.

Not when I reached the table. Not when I set the tray down smoothly exactly how I’d been trained. Not even when I straightened and finally met his eyes head-on.

The dazed quality in his eyes suddenly focused into intent, and he tilted his head slightly, studying me like he was sorting through a memory. His mouth pressed together for a second, then relaxed, and his full lips curved faintly as if he were close to placing me.

I could save him the time; we had definitely never crossed paths. He wasn’t a person you forgot.

My fingers curled against the edge of the tray, and I had to take a deep breath because I had the strange, unsettling sense that he was seeing far more of me than I would have liked.

“Saints preserve us.” The words came out rough and edged with irritation, wrapped in an accent that sounded like it had traveled a long way to get to Vegas.

My head snapped up to the man sitting across from the blond one at the table. He was leaning back in his chair as if the pile of money in front of him were more of a nuisance than a win. His dark hair was cut short and close, and his nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken once and he’d never bothered fixing it. Thick fingers crowded with gold rings rested on his stack of chips, while the other hand lifted his glass with clear annoyance.

His eyes were calculating, and I got the feeling that he was the kind of man who missed almost nothing and forgave even less.

The blond man reacted instantly to his voice. His attention tore away from me like he’d physically yanked it back, and he stiffened as he refocused on the table, his posture shifting from relaxed to coiled in the space of a breath. Whatever momentary lapse he’d had vanished, replaced by something colder.

“Well,” he said mildly, his voice low and smooth and far too calm for the tension suddenly threading the air. “If noise improved odds,” he said lightly, “you’d finally win something.”

The insult slid out wrapped in politeness, and one of the other men at the table let out a quiet laugh. Another shifted, discomfort flickering across his face. The Irishman’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile.

I stood there with the tray balanced against my palm, wondering what exactly I’d walked into . . . and why the blond man’s voice was lingering longer than it should have. It was doing something strange to me, settling under my skin and tracing down my spine, and it wasn’t fear that I was feeling. It was something else that had no business being there.

I swallowed and cursed myself for reacting. Exhaustion . . . hunger . . . that was all it was.

Slipping into motion around the table, I passed out drinks with steady hands and a neutral smile. Up close, the feeling I’d had when I first walked into the room worsened. These men weren’t just rich. This casino was always crawling with wealthy men, men who dressed up in tailored suits and polished smiles. But this table felt different. Like I’d wandered too close to something that didn’t belong on the main floor. Something that belonged in back rooms and shadows, not under the bright lights and crystal chandeliers.

The Irishman assessed me once as I handed him a new drink, and then he dismissed me entirely. The blond man didn’t look at me again, either . . . but I felt him all the same. Like a presence just behind my shoulder or gravity tugging without permission. I had to force myself not to look at him and keep doing my job.

A hand came out of nowhere and slapped my ass as I passed. The sound was loud in the quiet room, and I squeaked in surprise, the tray jolting in my grip as my body reacted before my brain caught up.

Stumbling half a step, my heart was lurching into my throat as the man laughed like I was part of the entertainment.

I turned, outraged . . . my mouth opening to say something, even though I’d get in trouble . . . but I didn’t get a chance.

The blond man moved. It was so quick I barely saw it. One second his hand was empty, the next a knife was buried deep in the felt between the other man’s splayed fingers. The blade wasn’t touching his skin, but it didn’t have to. The message was unmistakable.

He hadn’t liked what had just happened.

The room went deadly silent, and the man who’d touched me froze, color draining from his face as he stared down at the blade trembling between his splayed fingers.

The blond man leaned forward slightly, as if he were simply correcting a bet. “Oh,” he said blandly, “I’m sorry.” His voice stayed perfectly calm, and for some reason that scared me more than shouting ever could.

I didn’t know why calm felt worse, but it did.

“How did that get there?” he mused.

Had everyone else forgotten how to breathe, or was that just me?

Casually, he wrapped his fingers around the handle and drew the knife back out, the sound of metal leaving wood grating through the silence. He held it for a moment, inspecting it like he was more worried about a scratch on the knife than anything else before he tucked it back into his suit coat.

The man who’d slapped my ass jerked his hand back from the table as if he’d been burned. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide and glassy with a fear that had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d been drinking. “I—I was just—” he stammered, already backing away.

No one stopped him.

He didn’t look at me or anyone as he turned and fled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bolted from the room, disappearing through the doors like the devil himself was on his heels.

My legs felt weak, and I gripped the tray as my pulse roared in my ears. I couldn’t stop staring at the spot where the knife had been. Terror curled in my stomach, and tangled up with it was . . . awe.

The blond man finally looked at me then.

His brown eyes caught the light, and I saw there was a flash of silver at their centers. A part of me immediately wanted to look closer.

“You all right?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, because my voice had abandoned me completely. He inclined his head once, as if that settled something, then turned back to the table like nothing had happened at all. “Deal,” he murmured, and then play resumed.

The rest of the room returned to me in pieces, and I forced my feet to move so I could keep working. Each step felt strange, though, and my fingers trembled against the tray no matter how tightly I steadied them. And underneath everything else, one thought wouldn’t quiet down.

No one had ever stepped in for me like that before.

The Irish guy was glaring this time when I retrieved his already empty glass. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Is this how you always are,” he muttered, stacking his chips with more force than necessary, “or are you just particularly touchy when it comes to cocktail waitresses?”

Across the table, the blond man didn’t even sit up. He lifted his eyes briefly, like the question barely qualified as worth his time. His fingers continued to roll the chips in a slow, unhurried rhythm. “Only when someone forgets where they are.”

A few of the men around the table shifted uncomfortably, their chairs creaking as they tried to disappear into the leather.

The Irishman scoffed. “Relax. It was a joke.”

“Was it, Declan?” the blond man asked lightly. “Because it sounded like you had a problem with my boundaries.”

I stumbled at that word but quickly recovered as I passed behind them again, every instinct screaming at me that I needed to stay as invisible as possible.

The Irishman’s—Declan’s—jaw clenched. “I came to play cards. I’m not interested in . . . problems.”

A faint smile touched the blond man’s mouth. “But you do have an interest in walking into places that aren’t yours and seeing what you can get away with, right?” he asked in a tone you could almost call friendly.

A nervous laugh escaped someone at the table, and I set another glass down, my heart pounding hard enough I was sure they could hear it.

Declan leaned back, spreading his hands in mock surrender. “Again, I’m just here to gamble.” He let the words hang for a second, then added with a lazy grin, “I’m enjoying a gentlemen’s weekend, if you will. Cards, whiskey, a little friendly competition. That’s it. I don’t need an escort for that.”

“No,” the blond man agreed. “But you do need permission.”

I frowned? Permission? Vegas was Vegas. People came from everywhere—tourists, gamblers, conventioneers. No one asked permission to walk the Strip or drop money at a slot machine. What were they talking about?

Declan shoved back from the table, suddenly breathing hard like he was about to combust. “I’m going to remember this.”

The blond man continued to smile faintly. “I’m counting on it.”

Without bothering to collect his chips, Declan jumped out of his chair and stormed out of the room, leaving behind a stack of money worth more than I would probably earn in my lifetime.

The air immediately relaxed after he was gone, but I needed a minute. I escaped the high roller room on the pretense of needing refills, my pulse still buzzing, my thoughts a mess. The bar felt like a safe haven suddenly. I loaded the tray with fresh glasses as I took steadying breaths, trying to tell myself to get it together.

I’d seen strange things here. It was Vegas. The other day someone had played a poker game with a naked woman sprawled out on the center of the table. Things happened here.

But that experience had been something else.

I turned back toward the room, but I didn’t make it three steps.

“Hi.” The single syllable slid from his mouth with a seductiveness that should have been illegal.

I startled, a soft, humiliating gasp slipping out before I could stop it. The blond man was there suddenly, like he’d stepped out of the air itself, blocking my path with an ease that suggested he was very used to people adjusting around him.

He was standing too close, actually. Close enough that I could smell his delicious scent, and my panties immediately threatened to combust because of how good it was. He smiled, clearly knowing exactly what he was doing to me.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine,” I murmured, and I was annoyed at how breathy my voice sounded.

His eyes dipped briefly to the tray, then lifted back to my face, that strange brown-and-silver gaze intent in a way that made my skin feel tight. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said immediately. “I’m fine. It’s just another day.”

He didn’t move away, and the silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Intimate. Charged.

I shifted my weight, tightening my grip on the tray. “What . . . what are you staring at?” I asked, trying for steady and landing somewhere near defensive.

His mouth curved in delight, as though I’d just given him exactly what he’d been hoping for. “I’m trying to decide,” he said, “whether you look at every man like he’s a bad decision . . . or if I’m just getting special treatment.”

Heat rushed straight to my face. “Excuse me?”

“Have you decided if I’m worth the trouble yet?” he continued as if I weren’t currently melting into the floor. “Because I’m hoping I am.”

I swallowed. This was dangerous territory, but I knew the rules. I’d lived by them for years.

“I’m married,” I said automatically. The words came out like they always did. But for the first time in my life, I felt a jarring, unexpected pang of disappointment as soon as I said them. And that was followed by guilt . . .

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. But instead of easing, the interest in his eyes deepened, settling in as though it planned to stay. “Lucky man,” he murmured, and I struggled to not squirm under his gaze. I’d never had someone look at me like that, like they were memorizing the way I breathed.

I huffed out a quiet, nervous laugh. “You should probably move.”

“Probably,” he agreed . . . but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in just enough that only I could hear him. His voice dropped, becoming more of a caress than anything else. “Marriages aren’t always . . . permanent arrangements, though. Don’t you think? Sometimes people outgrow them. Sometimes husbands are misplaced. Especially when someone’s unhappy.”

My breath caught. “I didn’t say I was unhappy.”

He smiled, his eyes flicking to my mouth and back up again. “I didn’t say you were,” he murmured. “I’m just very pro-discussion. Open communication. Exploring possibilities.” He stepped back then, finally giving me space, his hands lifting in a gesture that might have looked innocent if it had come from anyone else.

“I guess I’ve distracted you from your job long enough,” he rasped, reaching down and adjusting the enormous bulge in his pants. He was smiling when I yanked my eyes back up, mortified, because he’d obviously just watched me check out his package.

What was wrong with me right now?

I stood there for a moment, every nerve in my body awake, and then I finally forced my feet to move. As I walked past him and back toward the high roller room, one thought echoed loud and unwanted in my head.

No one had ever made me wish I’d kept my mouth shut before.

And that was a problem.

CHAPTER 4

JAGGER

Carl intercepted me just before I reached the doors.

He looked the way men did when they were close to an ulcer. It was a miracle he hadn’t dropped dead yet with how much the man stressed. He didn’t even have to shoot anyone; what was he stressed about?

“Mr. Thatcher,” he said quietly, positioning himself in front of me like a speed bump. “Do you need me to close the room?”

I glanced past him at the velvet rope, the muted clatter of chips and low voices bleeding through, and I smiled as I slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Why would you need to do that, Carl? We don’t want to make it weird, do we? Just keep the drinks coming and tell your staff to relax.”

Carl exhaled, relief rushing out of him as though I’d just spared his life. “Of course. I’ll send in my very best employees to serve you.”

I hummed out an acknowledgment, not particularly caring either way, and pushed past him before he started trying to talk to me about casino numbers.

The moment I stepped into the high roller room, the temperature immediately shifted. I would have been offended if it hadn’t, but this was the Irish mob we were talking about, and with them, you never really knew.

Declan O’Rourke locked eyes with me immediately, and we didn’t break eye contact as I crossed the floor. He had a new scar slicing through one eyebrow that he hadn’t had in the picture I’d seen of him, and I idly wondered how he’d gotten it.

He watched me the whole time the way men like him watched threats . . . cataloging, calculating, deciding how much damage they could do if things went sideways.

Spoiler alert, I could do a lot.

“This looks like fun, boys,” I drawled as I pulled out a chair and sat. The table shifted almost imperceptibly. A throat cleared. Chips were adjusted. One of the guys leaned back, giving me just enough space to pretend it was courtesy and not caution.

Declan, though? He didn’t move an inch.

He just kept staring in that beady-eyed way of his. From where I was sitting, he sort of resembled a rat.

Hadn’t his mother told him it was rude to stare?

The dealer started the next hand, the cards sliding across the felt in smooth arcs. Declan finally glanced down, lifting the corners of his cards with two fingers before setting them back in place. “Buy-in’s steep,” he said casually. “Wouldn’t want you getting in over your head.”

I stacked my chips neatly in front of me. “If I get in over my head, I’ll let you know. I assume you’ll be too busy figuring out where it all went wrong to notice.”

A few of the men around the table coughed to cover laughs, and Declan’s mouth twitched.

Three cards hit the felt. Declan studied them for half a second before tapping the table. “Check.”

“Already?” I asked. “That was fast. I thought Boston boys could last longer than that.”

He leaned back slightly. “Oh, I last,” he spat. “I just don’t waste energy on the warm-up when I know I’m taking the whole pot in the end.”

“I’m sure,” I said, tossing in a stack of chips.

Declan’s smile turned sharp. “Big talk.”

“Big stack,” I corrected, tossing in a call without breaking eye contact. “Let’s see which one holds up.”

The turn card slid down, and Declan shoved a heavy pile of chips forward. “All in.”

A ripple went around the table.

“Are you scared yet?” Declan mused, and it definitely felt like he was talking about something other than cards.

I relaxed back into my chair. “‘Scared’? That’s an interesting word.” I looked him up and down, letting my lip curl just enough. “I think I would have problems if a receding hairline and a gambling problem did me in.”

Another choked laugh came from the other end of the table. Declan coldly eyed the guy, then glanced back at me. He pushed his chips forward when the flop hit. “Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t know who you’re playing with.”

I glanced at my cards like they were mildly interesting at best. “I know exactly who I’m playing with. A man whose left eye twitches when he lies.”

His hand stilled on the felt.

The door opened, and I automatically glanced over . . . and everything in the room seemed to fade away. A woman walked in carrying a tray, and it was like someone had turned the lights up without warning.

Brown hair spilled down her back in thick, glossy waves, threaded through with auburn streaks that caught the light and made it seem like a spotlight was following her as she walked. Her eyes were a clear, striking green, bright enough to stand out even in a room designed to dazzle, framed by lashes too dark and thick to be fair. She looked completely composed, and it didn’t seem possible she couldn’t be aware of what she was doing to every man in the room.

I’d never seen someone more beautiful. And my cock was definitely in agreement. I’d actually never played poker against a murderous mobster while sporting an inconveniently obvious erection, but I guess it was good to have new experiences . . . as long as this one ended with her in my bed.

She was not the kind of woman that made you fall asleep mid-thrust.

Fuck, I wanted her.

She glanced up, and our eyes met across the table . . . and I was starting to wonder if I’d fallen into some strange romance film. Birds were going to start singing at any moment.

The look should have been nothing, but instead, it felt as though something locked into place. The heat in my body didn’t disappear, but it shifted, threaded with something deeper, something I didn’t have a name for. A strange tightness spread through my chest, not painful—just unfamiliar. Like something inside me had been pulled taut without warning. I frowned slightly, confused by it. I didn’t get rattled. I didn’t get . . . whatever this was.

Her green eyes held mine a second longer, and I could tell it wasn’t because she was trying to flirt with me. It was like she was assessing me the same way I was assessing her.

The room came back slowly, the sounds filtering in again and reminding my suddenly dormant brain that I was currently playing a game. Declan was speaking, his voice edged with irritation, but I couldn’t have repeated a single word.

I had to consciously pull my attention away from her . . . and it sort of hurt to look away.

Get it together, Jagger. You’re acting like Jace. And we can’t have that.

Declan had noticed my little trip down erection lane, and he shot me a knowing look, one brow lifting slightly as the girl approached the table and set the tray down with practiced ease.

I let out a huff, realizing I’d been holding my breath since she walked into the room. No wonder I was acting so insane . . . I was oxygen deprived.

I forced my focus back to the cards, but it was useless. I could feel her presence like static under my skin, and I could track her movement without looking. When she passed close enough for me to catch the faintest hint of her scent, that weird sensation in my chest tightened more.

Maybe I was having a heart attack. The cholesterol in Mrs. Bentley’s burritos had to get me sometime.

Declan cleared his throat. “Vegas sure hires well,” he murmured, quiet enough that she couldn’t hear.

I kept my face blank as if I couldn’t care less what he’d just implied, but I was very aware of how everyone’s eyes were following her. Something ugly and . . . almost possessive was uncoiling in my gut. A dark little voice was suddenly arguing that it wouldn’t be that bad if I did, in fact, pull out a gun and shoot everyone.

She finished the round and began to move away from the table, her tray tucked against her hip, when the guy seated to my right leaned back and slapped her ass as she passed by him. She gasped, and before the idiot could even stop smirking, I slammed his hand flat against the table and drove a blade down between his fingers. The steel buried itself into the felt with a violent thunk.

I didn’t want to hear Maddox ever saying I didn’t have self-control. I could have stabbed him right in the hand.

The room froze, and I watched in satisfaction as the man’s breath hitched, a wet, panicked sound tearing out of him as he stared down at the steel trembling between his splayed fingers. His face drained of color so fast it was almost impressive.

I leaned back in my chair like I’d just adjusted a cuff. “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I wrapped my fingers around the handle and drew the knife out slowly, letting the scrape of metal carry through the silence. “How did that get there?”

No one laughed, which said a lot about the men in this room. That was funny.

The man yanked his hand back like it had been burned, and his chair screeched as he stumbled to his feet. His eyes flicked to mine, then to Declan’s, then anywhere but back to the table.

“I—I was just—” he choked out. Whatever excuse he had planned got lost in a whimper as he turned and bolted, nearly tripping over himself as he shoved past the door and disappeared down the hall like I was actually running after him with the knife.

I let myself look at her because I’d already restrained myself enough for the day. She was still standing there, gripping that tray. Her pulse quivered visibly at the base of her throat. Her eyes flicked to the spot on the table where my knife had sunk into the felt, then back to me. There was something else in her expression now. Not just shock.

Something softer . . . warmer. Something that tightened that strange place in my chest again.

Fuck. Was this what they called butterflies? Unacceptable.

I held her gaze. Up close, her eyes were even prettier, green with flecks of gold near the centers. “You all right?” I asked, slightly impressed that my voice came out normal.

She nodded quickly, like words had failed her.

I studied her for another second, making sure she meant it before I forced my attention once again back to the game, wincing at how hard my dick was. Knives and gorgeous women were apparently some kind of catnip for me.

Declan cleared his throat again, clearly irritated with how things were going. I flexed my fingers over my chips and met his stare.

“Deal,” I said calmly.

It was time to give him his warning . . . so I could get to what I wanted to do this evening.

Her.

I stepped out into the main bar just as she was loading fresh glasses onto her tray, breathing like she’d run a mile instead of walked twenty feet. The lighting was brighter out here, less smoky, and it did absolutely nothing to dull her. If anything, it made her even more attractive.

She was clearly trying to collect herself, and it was adorable.

“Hi,” I murmured as I made sure to step unreasonably close to her.

She startled, and a soft gasp slipped out, and I had to bite back a grin as she turned and found me there. For a second her brain clearly short-circuited. Fuck, she was stunning up close. In a sort of ruin-your-life kind of way, which my dick had no problem with, judging by the precum gushing into my briefs.

“Sorry,” I said, not remotely sorry. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine,” she murmured, and that breathy edge in her voice did things to me that probably violated several state laws.

I let my gaze dip to the tray and then back to her face, because I am nothing if not generous with my attention. “You okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. It’s just another day.”

Sure it was, and Mrs. Bentley didn’t make the world’s best breakfast food, either.

The silence stretched, and I watched, enthralled, as a rush of emotions crossed her features. She shifted her weight, probably debating whether she should run. “What . . . what are you staring at?” she demanded finally.

I smiled like she’d just handed me a present. “I’m trying to decide,” I said easily, “whether you look at every man like he’s a bad decision . . . or if I’m just getting special treatment.”

The flush that hit her cheeks was immediate and devastating. “Excuse me?”

“Have you decided if I’m worth the trouble yet?” I continued, because once I started, I committed. “Because I’m hoping I am.”

She swallowed. “I’m married.”

There it was. The line. What was supposed to be a ring-shaped shield . . . and in my defense, I did wait for half a second to see whether it mattered to me.

Unfortunately for her husband . . . it didn’t. Not in the slightest.

My brows lifted in mild interest, the sort of reaction you’d give someone who’d just said they preferred sparkling water over still. “Lucky man,” I said smoothly, and I did mean that. Based on the fact that she was working in the casino at midnight, though, instead of home in bed with him . . . I was confident he didn’t deserve her.

She let out this nervous little laugh that did nothing to hide the fact that she was rattled. “You should probably move.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

I didn’t move, of course. Instead, I leaned in just enough that my words brushed her ear, proud that I didn’t pass out from how good she smelled. “Marriages aren’t always . . . permanent arrangements, though. Don’t you think? Sometimes people outgrow them. Sometimes husbands are misplaced. Especially when someone’s unhappy.”

Her breath caught. “I didn’t say I was unhappy.”

“I didn’t say you were,” I replied, grinning because this was fun, and if she wasn’t unhappy with her husband right now, I was going to change that very soon. “I’m just very pro-discussion. Open communication. Exploring possibilities.”

She looked at me like I was either insane or irresistible . . . I was definitely both.

I stepped back then, finally giving her room—not because she’d told me to, but because I liked the way her body reacted when I did. Like she missed the pressure already.

“I guess I’ve distracted you from your job long enough,” I said, adjusting myself without breaking eye contact.

Her gaze dropped, and her eyes widened as she took in the thick outline straining against my suit pants. The fabric pulled so tight it left very little to the imagination. Her lips parted on a soft, involuntary breath.

When her eyes snapped back up, horrified at being caught, I laughed softly. This was going to be so much fun.

She brushed past me, and every nerve in my body lit up. Unfortunately for me, the backside of her was just as good as the front . . . and that was all I could take.

I darted across the casino and shoved open the first door I saw—an empty staff bathroom, thank fuck—and slammed it shut behind me. The lock clicked, and I stumbled forward, one hand braced on the sink, the other already tearing at my zipper.

I didn’t make it to the toilet.

There was a potted plant on the counter, some kind of fake fern, and that was as far as I got. I yanked my cock free, and with one rough stroke I was coming. Hot pulses spilled over my fist, splattering onto the leaves of the plant like I was an animal marking territory. My hips jerked forward again and again, my vision whiting out at the edges, and a broken groan ripped out of my throat as extreme pleasure tore through me.

What. The. Fuck.

I’d never come like this . . . and certainly not involuntarily into greenery. Bracing both hands on the counter, my breath ragged, and my cock still twitching as cum dripped down the fake leaves onto the marble, I stared at my wrecked reflection.

And then I started laughing.

Because this woman, this quiet little cocktail waitress with sad eyes and a mouth I wanted to stuff, was going to destroy me.

I was already forming a plan.

Married wasn’t a red light. It was a mild inconvenience.

And I had never, in my life, respected mild inconveniences.

CHAPTER 5

JAGGER

After I . . . recovered, I left the bathroom and found a place to lurk so I could watch her work for a while. I wasn’t going to call this creepy, but it was probably venturing close to the word for the first time in my life. I pulled out my phone while I watched her so I could text Lawson to start my plan.

I needed the woman’s name if I was going to stalk her properly.

Me: I need the names and photos of every staff member on shift tonight in Paradise. Cocktail waitresses included.

The reply came fast.

Lawson: That’s specific. Give me two minutes.

I leaned against the wall, my eyes locked on her again. She laughed at something a bartender said as she picked up drinks, and for one stupid second I forgot how to breathe. I forgot everything except how fucking gorgeous she looked when she smiled like that.

Then the haze cleared, and I registered the ache in my hand. I was gripping my phone so hard the case was creaking, and the screen was threatening to crack under my thumb. Taking a deep breath, I unclenched my hand, telling myself it was unreasonable to storm across the floor and drag her out of here just because she smiled at someone else.

Holy fuck. I was turning into my brother.

No, I’m not, I assured myself. This was a lust thing. His was a crazy thing. The two feelings were very different.

My phone buzzed again, and I straightened.

Lawson: Sent.

I opened the folder in my email and scrolled without interest until I found her.

There she was—smiling in her employee ID photo, eyes tired but bright, and her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. I saved the photo and resisted the urge to make it my profile screen.

Eden Thorne.

Was it a little ironic that her name was Eden and she worked in a casino called Paradise? Yes. But somehow it was also fitting.

I caught myself running my thumb over her picture on my phone like it might respond to praise, and I huffed out a laugh. “Pull it together,” I muttered. When you start petting your screen like it’s going to purr, it’s probably time to do something else.

Me: Eden Thorne. Get me everything.

Lawson: Everything everything?

Me: Everything everything.

There was a pause.

Lawson: She’s pretty, Thatcher.

I gritted my teeth.

Me: And I know where to hide your body. Focus.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Lawson: Already digging. You want financials, family, socials, and work history?

I thought about that for a second. None of that was a prerequisite to me sleeping with her, but it would be good to make sure she wasn’t an Irish plant or something like that.

Me: Don’t miss a thing

Lawson: I never do.

I locked the screen and pushed off the wall, the casino noise swelling again as I stepped back into it and walked back toward the high roller room. I needed a fucking trophy for the self-restraint I was showing tonight.

And once again, I had an erection.

I was back in the high roller room trying to distract myself. And I was annoyed.

The cards in my hand were solid. The bets were predictable. I was winning—of course I was winning—but it felt mechanical. Automatic. I raised when I should. Folded when it bored me. Took two decent pots in a row without even looking particularly interested.

But it wasn’t distracting enough. My mind was filled with green eyes and long brown hair that I wanted to wrap around my fist.

The guy next to me kept glancing at my bulging slacks with a sparkle in his eye, like he thought he was going to get lucky tonight.

This was ridiculous.

I won another hand just to prove I could, dragging the chips toward me with a flick of my fingers, when suddenly the room got quiet and everyone at the table . . . including the dealer, suddenly leapt up to leave like the table had caught on fire. Within seconds, the room was empty.

I sighed because Cruz Vale was a buzzkill of the highest order. Looking down at the obscene pile of chips in front of me, I let out a long, put-upon sigh. “You know,” I said lightly, finally glancing up, “you’ve completely ruined my night.”

My best friend was smiling as he crossed the room. He was in a burgundy suit that would have looked ridiculous on most people, but somehow he pulled it off. His dark hair had fallen slightly into his face, a few strands brushing his forehead in a way that made him look almost boyish.

Almost.

Up close, his face told a different story. Cruz was pretty in a way that made people stupid. It made them relax because they assumed something that pretty couldn’t be dangerous.

Which was exactly how he liked them before he gutted them.

“It doesn’t look like I’ve ruined your night,” he drawled as he sat down across from me, nodding at my pile of chips.

“One of them was about to hand over his oceanfront mansion in Miami,” I complained, pushing the stack into a neater tower. “I could’ve retired. Bought linen. Become insufferable.”

“You hate Miami,” Cruz replied without missing a beat.

“That’s not the point,” I said. It was true. I hated Miami. The humidity alone felt like a personal attack, and there was something deeply unsettling about grown men who wore white jeans unironically. It did nothing for me. Still, an ocean view might’ve distracted me from Eden. At least temporarily. It would have been at least worth the experiment.

I leaned back in my chair and studied Cruz for a second. “Speaking of experiments,” I said casually, even though I was pretty sure I hadn’t said that last part out loud, “care to explain why you couldn’t text me about the Boston situation? Maddox saw my dick again.”

“You handled it, I assume,” Cruz said smoothly, his expression not giving anything away.

“That’s not the point,” I repeated, narrowing my eyes at him in interest. “Where were you?”

He lifted a brow. “Busy.”

“‘Busy,’” I echoed flatly. “With?”

He still said nothing.

I drummed my fingers lightly on the felt. “It’s very unlike you to not even send an inappropriate GIF.”

Cruz snorted. “Are you accusing me of something? Maybe instead of that, we should be focusing on why you fell asleep mid-thrust.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Why is everyone in our group a gossip queen? There should be at least a twenty-four-hour grace period before my dick is discussed.”

Cruz hummed.

“I don’t like it when you’re mysterious on purpose, Vale,” I continued.

“Most people don’t,” he replied charmingly, adjusting his cuff in a way that told me I wasn’t going to get anything from him tonight.

I studied him for a second, irritation prickling under my skin. It was deeply inconvenient being best friends with someone who could outmaneuver you socially while looking bored. At this rate, I was going to have to start stalking him.

Which felt unfair, considering I already had one potential fixation developing and I preferred to keep my hobbies streamlined.

Cruz’s mouth curved, as though he could hear my thoughts and approved of them. His eyes sharpened. “What happened to the Irishman?”

“You mean, is he still alive?” I asked.

“That was implied.”

I shrugged. “For now. I think he took the hint.”

Cruz exhaled, a quiet sound that could’ve been relief or amusement. “Good. I’d hate to have to clean that up tonight. I’ve got enough to deal with.”

“Please,” I said. “If I start leaving bodies in here, it sets a precedent. Then everyone expects dinner and a show.”

Cruz scoffed, but I’m sure he knew exactly what I was talking about.

An easy silence settled between us, the kind that didn’t need filling. It always struck me in moments like this how absurd it was that we’d ended up here at all.

We’d met in a glass-walled conference room in Manhattan, both of us fresh out of college and pretending we weren’t internally combusting. Investment banking. Hundred-hour weeks. Coffee that tasted like an ashtray. I’d taken one look at him and thought, Great, another rich guy with a superiority complex and a face that’s going to make HR nervous.

Turns out I’d underestimated him.

We started with drinks after work because mutual disdain for everyone else was a powerful bonding tool. Then dinners. Then late nights staring at spreadsheets and talking about things that weren’t numbers.

I thought he was just ambitious. I hadn’t known he was the heir to Vegas.

That particular detail came out the dramatic way.

A hitman stepped out from the dark stretch between parked cars outside a restaurant in SoHo, his gun already rising, and a silencer fixed to the barrel. I saw it a split second before Cruz did. Long enough to grab him by the collar and yank him down hard. He hit the pavement, furious. I handled the rest.

I’d surprised both of us by not letting the man get a second shot.

That was the night the curtain dropped. The banking. The polite fiction of corporate ambition. After that, there was no pretending.

I saved his life, and he let me into it.

And that was that. We’d been best friends ever since.

Cruz took a sip of my whiskey because he had boundary issues, and then he stood and adjusted his ridiculous burgundy jacket. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go up to your place. We need to talk.”

I nudged the pile toward the center of the table. Someone would collect the chips for me and cash them out later. “Let me guess. There’s more to Boston than Declan.”

“We should also talk about your sudden interest in one of our employees’ files,” he added smoothly.

I scoffed. “Unbelievable. A man can’t casually pull background information on a woman?”

Cruz grinned unrepentantly.

“I thought we valued privacy in this organization,” I continued. “Discretion. Brotherhood.”

“You requested her full personnel file,” he said dryly. “Do you really think Lawson wasn’t going to say something? You’ve never done that before.”

“I allegedly requested her full file,” I dismissed. “Maybe I was simply conducting a thorough evaluation of an exemplary employee.”

Cruz stared at me incredulously.

“I take talent retention very seriously. You know that,” I added.

He smiled, looking deeply entertained and somewhat demonic. “This should be fun.”

My phone buzzed in my hand, and I checked it immediately, even knowing Cruz was watching and taking notes. My thumb unlocked the screen with the ease of someone who had absolutely not been refreshing it every few minutes since I told Lawson to dig.

The file was live.

I scrolled through her schedule and address while Cruz kept talking, obviously only half listening to him. Nothing jumped out at first. It was all pretty routine and predictable.

Until I got to her method of transportation . . . public transit.

I slowed my scroll, seeing her bus route and the fact that she would be boarding in four minutes.

The amusement drained out of me. It was two a.m., not a great time for her to be riding the bus alone. I slipped the phone into my pocket and stood, not understanding why I was standing but going with the impulse either way.

“I’m going to be a bit,” I said.

Cruz stopped mid-sentence and studied me. “That sounds like the beginning of a bad decision.”

“Relax,” I replied lightly. “I just need to run an errand.”

He didn’t ask what kind; he just smirked at me knowingly. “Don’t take too long,” he said.

“I won’t,” I called, already moving.

The motorcycle rumbled to life beneath me, the vibration settling something restless in my chest as I pulled out into traffic. Vegas stretched around me, wide awake despite the hour, pulsing as it refused to acknowledge the concept of sleep.

I’d always loved that about it. The city never apologized for what it was. It just kept moving.

I caught sight of the bus a few blocks ahead and adjusted my speed, keeping enough distance to avoid attention while never losing it. The strip of polished neon and curated chaos started thinning the farther we went, the lights getting harsher, the buildings more run-down . . . all the illusion of glamour peeling away in tired, cracked layers.

The bus veered off the main drag and into a part of town I hadn’t been to in a while. The boarded windows and bars on the glass of the buildings didn’t exactly call to me. I gritted my teeth as the bus sighed to a stop and the doors folded open. She stepped down exactly where the file said she would. Her shoulders squared as her gaze swept the street in a quick, practiced scan that told me a lot about how long she’d been living in shitty situations.

Eden started walking quickly down the sidewalk, and I hurried to park so I could follow her on foot without attracting her attention.

A streetlight stuttered overhead, casting an uneven glow that caught on the broken glass scattered along the curb where a car window had been bashed in. A man lay passed out on the pavement nearby, a syringe, crumpled foil, and a rusted spoon scattered beside him, spelling out exactly what he’d been doing before he went down.

She didn’t slow or even spare him a glance . . . like it didn’t warrant her energy because the sight of him was so normal.

Something dark twisted in my chest. I wasn’t shocked by the scene; I’d usually seen worse before breakfast. But she was moving through it all like prey that had accepted the ecosystem.

Where the hell was her husband?

The building she stopped in front of made me test all that willpower I’d been so proud of tonight. Peeling paint curled away from the siding. One exterior light buzzed weakly, threatening to give up at any second. The stairs sagged under years of use and neglect.

I watched as she jogged up the steps to the third story, unlocking the door and slipping inside quickly.

And then I watched some more.

A light flicked on in one of the windows, bleeding dimly through cheap curtains. After a minute, it went dark again, and the feeling that hit me was suddenly something familiar.

“Do you think she’ll ever walk again?” My voice was steadier than it should have been.

I was seventeen, still in my varsity jacket, sitting in a hard plastic chair outside an ICU room that smelled like bleach and old socks. Machines beeped in uneven rhythms from behind the door. The air pressed in, cold and over conditioned, raising goosebumps along my arms.

Her dad stood beside me with his hands fisted at his sides as we waited for the doctor to answer. It had taken him a while. That was what I remembered most.

The pause.

“The damage to her spine is extensive,” the doctor finally said.

I understood that word for what it was. In that case, extensive meant forever.

Carlie had been mugged in a grocery store parking lot that evening. She was picking up something for her mom, and it had just been the wrong place at the wrong time.

I’d slipped into her room when they let me. She’d been propped up in the hospital bed, pale against white sheets, tubes and wires running everywhere. Her hair was still in the messy ponytail she’d worn to school that morning.

She looked smaller somehow, muted. Nothing like the loud, fierce girl who shoved me when I was being an ass and kissed me five seconds later. Just that morning, she’d walked through the high school hallways like she owned them.

Now she couldn’t walk at all.

“Hey,” I said, stepping closer to the bed.

Her eyes had found mine, and she’d smiled . . . but it didn’t reach as far, and when I’d taken her hand carefully, it didn’t tighten around mine.

Later, in the hallway, I’d punched a wall and started to understand that the world wasn’t safe. That daylight didn’t matter. That it only took one man with nothing to lose to change everything.

I blinked, and the hospital lights from the past were gone, and I was back outside Eden’s shitty apartment, staring up at the dark window like it was my worst enemy. Strange . . . I hadn’t thought about Carlie in years.

Apparently, my brain enjoyed terrible timing.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I finally turned and headed back to my bike, irritation riding shotgun alongside something else. I swung a leg over, settled into the seat, and let the city noise fill the silence for a second before pulling away from the curb.

She was inside . . . relatively safe . . .

For now.

I just wasn’t a big fan of anything with the words for now attached to it.

CHAPTER 6

EDEN

The lock clicked behind me, and I leaned my forehead briefly against the door, exhaustion sinking into my bones the way it always did after a long shift. My feet ached, my shoulders felt knotted and a hundred years old . . . and all I wanted was my bed.

Instead, the apartment smelled like food.

I straightened slowly, confusion threading through the fog in my head as I slipped off my shoes. It was only then that I realized that Ryan was standing at the stove, cooking something. I blinked a few times because it was hard to comprehend that I was seeing him awake and upright. When was the last time I’d gotten home and he hadn’t been passed out on the couch or sprawled out in our bed too drunk to greet me?

The pan in front of him sizzled, steam curling up toward the ceiling, and my eyes widened even farther when I saw our tiny table was set with two plates. An actual candle was burning between them, its flame wavering like it was also in disbelief over the scene.

My feet had forgotten how to move. “What are you doing?” I finally asked, my voice coming out thin and incredulous.

He turned, smiling like this was the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn’t shattered my expectations simply by being vertical. His eyes were bright, and his movements were energetic in a way that didn’t match the hour.

“What does it look like?” he teased. “I’m making dinner.”

I stared at him, then at the plates, then at the candle. “It’s three in the morning.”

“So?” He shrugged, unfazed. “You work nights.”

That was true. But it had also been true last night . . . and the night before that. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, when he tilted his head and studied my face. “You didn’t really think I’d forget our anniversary, did you?”

His words immediately nauseated me.

“Oh,” I said stupidly, the sound barely more than air. My mind scrambled backward anyway, rifling through memories like drawers I hadn’t opened in a while until I landed on the courthouse and how we’d stood in front of a judge with our cheap rings and even cheaper promises.

I had completely forgotten. I was immediately ashamed of myself, and the feeling sank even deeper than my exhaustion. “I— Ryan, I didn’t⁠—”

He laughed, and the sound caught me off guard. I hadn’t heard it in so long it almost didn’t belong to him anymore. “Relax,” he said easily. “I know you’ve been busy.”

Busy. The word felt like a kindness I didn’t deserve.

I looked at the candle again, at the care in the small details, and I wanted to throw up. I should have remembered. I should have planned something. I’d let the days blur together until even something like this slipped through the cracks.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

He waved it off, but his eyes lingered on me like he was trying to read something in my face. I concentrated hard on not thinking about the way someone else’s stare had felt earlier tonight, and how it had done something to me that my husband’s gaze never did.

“Sit,” he said gently. “I wanted this to be nice.”

I walked to the table like my body was operating on a delay, each step slower than it should have been. I sank into the chair just as he plated the food with a small, theatrical flourish, clearly pleased with himself. My breath caught when I saw what he’d just served.

Steak . . . real steak, and not a thin cut. He’d taken the time to sear it properly, which I didn’t even know he knew how to do, and he’d even melted butter on top. My first thought wasn’t gratitude or surprise, though. It was panic.

“Ryan,” I said quietly before I could stop myself, “how did you pay for this?”

The smile on his face faltered, just a fraction, before hardening into something defensive. “Fucking hell, Eden. Can you not do this?”

“I’m just asking,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We didn’t have groceries this morning.”

“So what?” he snapped. “I can’t do something nice without you interrogating me?”

“That’s not⁠—”

“It’s always something,” he cut in, turning back toward the stove as if the pan suddenly needed his full attention. “I’m trying to do something for us, and you immediately assume the worst.”

There it was again, that familiar twist of guilt. I pressed my lips together. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Ryan didn’t look at me as he sat down and picked up his fork. “Can we just eat?”

I quickly nodded . . . and we did.

The steak was good. Better than good. It was perfectly cooked, and I savored each bite, even though I was very aware with every swallow that we couldn’t afford this. The candle flickered between us, casting soft shadows that made the apartment feel almost . . . romantic.

Almost.

Ryan talked first, filling the silence the way he always did when it grew uncomfortable. “I know things have been rough,” he said, his tone gentler now, the earlier edge gone as though it had never existed. “I know I’ve been stressed. You’ve been stressed. But it’s temporary.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes on my plate.

“I’ve got things in the pipeline,” he continued. “Real things. Opportunities. You’ll see. We’re not going to be scraping by like this forever.”

Pipeline. Opportunities. The words were familiar, and worn thin from repetition.

I murmured something agreeable, going through the motions of lifting my fork and chewing and swallowing. On the outside, I played my part of the supportive, patient wife who believed him . . . while inside, I was just sad.

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to so badly. I wanted to let his confidence settle into me, to trust that this time was different, that this promise would finally stick. But it was hard to forget how these last few years of promises had felt hopeful and reassuring in the moment and then they’d be gone like smoke slipping right through my fingers.

“Thank you,” I said as I finished my steak, hoping my smile seemed genuine. It was hard to lean into the version of myself that knew how to keep the peace when I was this tired. It also didn’t help that an aching part of me wondered how many more anniversaries would pass like this.

Beautiful on the surface.

And empty underneath.

He reached for me after dinner like it had fixed everything. Like the candle and the steak and the words pipeline and opportunities were enough to smooth over the months that had worn me to nothing. I let him pull me close anyway, because that’s what I did. Because saying no would turn into a conversation I didn’t have the energy to survive.

The bedroom was dim, the air heavy. His hands felt familiar in the way routines do, predictable and . . . expected. I tried to be present, I tried to give him what he wanted, what he was reaching for with that hopeful edge in his voice.

But it felt wrong immediately.

Not painful. Just . . . empty. Like I was somewhere else already, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over while my body went through the motions without me.

I closed my eyes, and that’s when it happened, uninvited, unwanted . . . unavoidable.

There was a flash of blond hair and a dangerous smile that promised things I wasn’t supposed to want. Silver-flecked eyes locked on mine, watching me as if I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

My breath stuttered, and Ryan groaned, thinking it was for him.

But it wasn’t.

It was for him instead, burning behind my eyelids . . . those tattooed forearms caging me in, the weight of him pressing me down, the low rasp of his voice in my ear saying look at me while he thrust deep inside me. I imagined the stretch of him, that huge dick dragging against every sensitive spot until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but shatter.

My hips lifted on instinct, chasing the fantasy.

I knew this wasn’t okay. I knew I should stop it, push the image away, focus on the man actually inside me. And I tried . . . I really did.

But my body betrayed me anyway.

The moment crested fast and intense—nothing like the hollow blankness I’d been stuck in seconds before. Pleasure tore through me like wildfire, and my back arched off the bed as I clutched the sheets so hard my knuckles bleached white. A cry tore out of my throat, and my walls clenched around Ryan, pulsing hard, wave after wave crashing until black spots danced behind my eyelids, and my legs trembled uncontrollably.

It was the best orgasm I’d ever had. And it wasn’t for the man on top of me.

Ryan finished a few thrusts later with a grunt and collapsed beside me, his breathing heavy and satisfied. I lay there staring at the ceiling with slick thighs and shame burning hot under my skin.

I’d come screaming for a stranger whose name I didn’t even know.

The worst part wasn’t that my body responded. It was that for the first time in a long time . . . I’d felt something at all. And it wasn’t because of my husband.

I rolled onto my side, curling in on myself, trying to hide the tears that slipped out anyway.

Because it felt like I’d just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

Morning came too fast and without mercy.

The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup, a combination that usually smelled good to me, but today it just made my temples throb. I tied my apron with fingers that felt heavy and slow, then stepped behind the counter, already bracing myself for the shift.

Mara was leaning against the register, scrolling through her phone as if the place ran itself. She had one hip cocked, and all her weight fully committed to not helping.

“Morning,” I said.

She hummed without looking up.

I swallowed the irritation and got to work. Filling the ice bin. Wiping down counters already sticky from spilled syrup. Restocking lids and sleeves with hands that moved on autopilot. The espresso machine beeped impatiently, and I stepped in to fix it before anyone else even looked up. I always did. It was easier that way. I was used to being the one moving while everyone else conserved energy.

It was how my marriage worked.

The first rush hit like it always did . . . loud and overwhelming and demanding. Orders barked out. Milk steaming. Blenders screaming. I moved through it all without thinking, smiling when required, nodding when appropriate, and always keeping the line moving.

But somewhere between the first rush and the second, when I felt like I was about to pass out from doing it all on only an hour or two of sleep . . . a realization quietly snapped into place.

I couldn’t do this forever.

I couldn’t keep stacking jobs on top of jobs, exhaustion on top of obligation, and pretending it was a plan instead of survival. I pictured myself sitting across from Ryan later, telling him I couldn’t keep working like this and that I needed to cut back. Maybe I could finally take a class or two, do something that pointed us forward instead of just keeping us afloat.

The idea scared me . . . but it also felt like oxygen.

The bell over the door jingled, and I looked up automatically, already pulling on my customer smile. Everything inside me stalled when I saw that the beautiful stranger from last night had just walked in.

His hair was more controlled today, styled instead of falling into his face, and the suit he wore was a different color . . . but none of that mattered.

Because the reaction was the same.

That sudden, electric rush low in my stomach. That tight pull in my chest. That awareness that felt almost physical, like my body recognized him before my brain had time to catch up.

He scanned the room once, and then his eyes landed on me.

“Is it hot in here?” I murmured, pulling my gaze to Mara in the hopes that for once she’d actually want to talk and distract me.

It didn’t work exactly like that.

Instead, Mara glanced up and saw the ridiculously attractive man who’d just walked in . . . and suddenly she was full of useful energy. “Oh,” she said, pulling on a smile I’d never seen on her before. “I’ve got this one.”

I should have let her, but something took over my body, and I was standing in front of the cash register a second later.

He stepped up to the counter, and I was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. There was something about his presence that seemed to take over everything . . . to fill the space.

“Good morning,” he said—way too charmingly.

“Hi,” I managed, keeping my chin up and a firm grip on the counter.

His eyes flicked to my name tag and back up again, and a sly grin spread across his face, as though he’d just gotten exactly what he wanted. “Eden . . .” The way he said it sent a small, unwelcome shiver down my spine, and I had to give myself a pep talk that consisted of me screaming Ryan in my head over and over again like it was a protective spell.

“You were in the casino last night,” I said, forcing my tone into something neutral and detached . . . like I had just now placed him and hadn’t, in fact, orgasmed to the memory of his face a few hours ago. “The high roller room, right?”

He grinned, clearly entertained. “I was,” he answered mockingly. “But I have a feeling that you hadn’t forgotten.”

I flushed that he’d so bluntly called me out, and he tilted his head slightly, studying me the way someone studies a puzzle. “It’s cute that you were pretending you just now recognized me, though,” he said softly.

“I wasn’t pretending anything. I’m actually wondering why you’re here,” I said, gesturing vaguely around us, taking in the chipped counter, the mismatched chairs, Mara very obviously pretending not to listen while hanging on every word, “at the coffee shop I work at . . .”

He licked his bottom lip, the tip of his tongue dragging across the full curve like he was tasting something he already knew he wanted more of.

My knees went weak.

“You say that like it’s suspicious,” he mused.

I crossed my arms, trying to brace myself against everything he was throwing at me. “I say it like I’m trying to decide if you’re stalking me.”

That finally got a real reaction.

His smile widened, and it was almost disorienting . . . like looking into the sun. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter, completely at ease and obviously in no hurry to be anywhere else. “Is that something I should be doing?”

My stomach flipped hard, more heat spreading up my neck before I could control it. I gripped my elbows tighter, annoyed that my body seemed determined to betray me.

“No,” I said immediately. But then I hesitated, which annoyed me, too. “I mean . . . I’d prefer you not.”

He laughed softly, and the sound curled through me like some kind of drug. And, worse, some part of me was already wanting to hear it again. “Hmm,” he murmured. “You would prefer it.”

“Yes,” I said, reaching for a stack of napkins just so my hands had something to occupy them.

“Relax,” he added easily. “If I were stalking you, you wouldn’t have noticed.”

That did absolutely nothing to make me feel better, and it forced me to look back at him because now I was even more suspicious about why he was here.

“What do you want?” I asked, and there was a faint edge in my voice this time. A little bite. Which was infinitely better than the breathy nonsense I’d been giving him before.

“That’s easy,” he said without hesitation. “I want you to go out with me.” He said the words with enough confidence that I almost laughed.

Mara made a small choking sound behind me, like she’d inhaled her own spit.

“I meant your coffee order,” I said dryly. “And as I believe I mentioned last night . . . I’m married.”

Just like then, that fact didn’t seem to faze him at all. Instead, he started glancing around the shop, as if he was genuinely looking for something. “Where is he?” he asked, sounding confused.

A lie rose automatically to my tongue. That he was working or some other made-up version of my life, but I couldn’t seem to force the words past my lips.

Ryan was probably still asleep, just like he’d been when I’d left. The smell of last night’s steak lingering in the air a reminder that I’d have very little to eat for the rest of the week to make up for it.

I closed my mouth, attempted to refocus myself, and lifted my chin. “Your order. Please.”

Something approving flashed across his face, like he enjoyed my defiance. “Fine. What’s your favorite?”

I hesitated, then sighed. “You don’t want to order my favorite drink. It’s ridiculous.”

“Perfect.”

I rolled my eyes because this conversation and situation in general were also completely ridiculous. “Iced white chocolate mocha with almond milk, no whip, extra foam.”

“Sounds delicious. I’ll have that.” He gave me that genuine smile again, and Mara dropped a stack of cups with a loud clatter.

I, unfortunately, reacted by gripping his cup a little too hard. The paper cracked in my hand, and I reluctantly reached for another one, acutely aware of his knowing gaze on me. I cleared my throat, shaking my head a little as if I were in fact under a spell. “Why, exactly, are you ordering the drink I like?”

“Because you look like a woman with good taste,” he said easily.

Mara all but moaned at that statement, and I was a little worried she was about to spontaneously combust. “I can assure you I don’t,” I murmured distractedly, glancing at her over my shoulder.

“Oh?” he asked.

When I faced him again, he’d leaned in closer. “Bad track record?”

I stiffened, realizing what I’d just implied.

“Let me guess,” he continued smoothly. “You picked the wrong wine once. Maybe the wrong shoes.”

His gaze dipped to the cheap ring on my left hand, lingering just long enough to make my stomach twist, before lifting back to my face. “Or the wrong husband.”

“I’ll get you that coffee,” I said, my voice betraying me with the slightest shake as I turned toward the coffee bar behind me.

I took my time making his drink while Mara tried to flirt her way into his bedroom, and from the brief, politely uninterested way he answered her, it was obvious he wasn’t encouraging it.

A small, ridiculous spark of satisfaction flared in my chest. And then shame followed immediately behind it.

I slid the finished cup across the counter without looking at him, focusing instead on the cup, the lid, the way the ice shifted inside. If I kept my eyes on the coffee, maybe my body would stop reacting like he was standing too close.

“Here you go,” I said, aiming for blandly polite.

“Thank you, Eden.” The way he said my name forced my gaze up before I could stop it.

As he reached for the cup, his fingers brushed mine. The contact was brief . . . and it should have been nothing. But it sent a ripple through me, like the first tremor before something gave way. My breath hitched, and I felt it travel from my fingertips straight to my center.

He didn’t immediately pull back, and neither did I.

For half a second, we just stood there, connected by the thin line of skin against skin. Something changed in his face, and the easy, self-assured amusement he’d been wearing since he’d walked in vanished. His brows pulled together slightly, and his mouth parted just a fraction in something that almost looked like confusion.

His gaze dropped to our hands, then lifted back to my face, searching, as though I might have an explanation for whatever had just passed between us.

The bell over the door jingled, and he blinked, the moment shattering. He pulled his hand back, his fingers curling around the cup instead of me as he glanced toward the door.

Another man stepped in, and for a split second I wondered if I’d slipped into some alternate reality, because the probability of two of the most gorgeous men I’d ever seen walking into our run-down coffee shop felt statistically impossible.

This one had dark hair and a faint crescent scar near his chin that only made him more unfair to look at. He spotted the blond man immediately and walked toward him, leaning in once he got close. “We need to go,” he murmured.

His eyes suddenly shifted to me, and he gave me a slow, assessing once-over that made my shoulders square on instinct. He quickly winked, and I could have sworn I heard him add, quieter this time, “Is that her?”

The blond man didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of his coffee, set the cup down, and reached for his wallet. When he slid the hundred-dollar bill across the counter, my breath caught.

It was . . . absurd. Completely, undeniably absurd. Almost more than I made in an entire shift. I stared at it, then at him. “This is too much.”

He glanced down at it like he genuinely hadn’t registered the amount. “Is it?”

“Yes.” I pushed it back toward him. “I can’t take this.”

His fingers closed over the bill before it moved an inch. “You can,” he said evenly. “And you will.”

I swallowed. “Sir⁠—”

“Keep it,” he added softly, like it wasn’t a command at all. “For the good taste.”

The other man cleared his throat pointedly, and the blond man finally stepped back, that maddening smile returning as if this hadn’t just knocked the breath out of me. “See you around, Eden.”

Then they were gone, the bell chiming cheerfully behind them.

I stood there for a long moment, staring down at the counter. My pulse thudded in my ears, and my fingers closed slowly around the bill like it might disappear if I loosened my grip. I had the insane thought then that he’d just walked in, rearranged something inside me . . .

And I still didn’t even know his name.

CHAPTER 7

JAGGER

The docks always smelled the same—salt, diesel, and secrets nobody wanted traced back to them. I stood near the edge of the concrete with my hands in my pockets, suit jacket open, and my tie long gone. The wind off the water tugged at my shirt like it thought it had a say in my life.

A container ship eased into place, slow and heavy, metal groaning against metal. From the outside, it looked harmless and industrial. Boring.

But inside?

It was stacked with enough product to shift markets and enough cash to make senators forget their morals and CEOs forget their wives.

Definitely not harmless or boring.

The cranes hovered overhead, skeletal and patient, waiting for permission to descend. I liked this part. The quiet before the movement. The moment where everything could still go wrong.

People always assumed money looked like champagne and rooftop views. It didn’t. Sometimes it looked like standing on wet concrete at four in the morning, making sure nobody decided to shave a few million off the top because they thought you wouldn’t notice.

They always realized their mistake the moment I did.

My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it, unable to help the grin that tugged at my mouth because, of course, it was Jace. My little brother was the star wide receiver at the University of Tennessee, a campus legend, and a future NFL problem child if he didn’t learn when to shut up. He had no idea what I actually did for a living, and he liked it that way because it allowed him to invent wildly inaccurate theories and give me hell about them every chance he got.

Only one of us got recognized in public, and I considered that a win.

Jace: So are you getting laid or just aggressively ignoring me?

I exhaled through my nose and glanced at the ship.

Me: Good morning to you, too. Also, why are you texting me at 4 a.m.?

Jace: That wasn’t an answer. You can’t answer a question with another question. It’s against the rules. Silence usually means yes you are ignoring me, or that you passed out mid-thrust again.

A crane screeched overhead, and I stepped aside without looking.

Me: That happened once, and I regret telling you.

Jace: Once that you admitted to. There’s a difference. Also, it’s not 4 a.m. for me, genius. It’s almost seven here. I’ve already been up for two hours because Coach thinks sleep is a privilege. We ran drills until my legs forgot how to function. So again. Are you horizontal or brooding on a balcony somewhere pretending you’re in a cologne commercial?

A smirk tugged at my mouth.

Me: I don’t brood. And I know it’s seven there, asshole . . . but it’s only 4 a.m. here. I could’ve been asleep. Deep asleep. Preserving my youth. And now look at me—robbed of my beauty sleep because you can’t regulate your emotions before sunrise.

Jace: First of all, you absolutely do brood, and Riley agrees with me. It’s your whole personality. That and “mysterious European crime lord but make it business casual.” And second of all, you don’t sleep. You hover ominously in dark rooms and wait for opportunities to do wildly illegal things.

Me: Why again do you always assume I do things that are illegal? That’s actually a ridiculous assumption.

Jace: Remember when you asked me to say I was storing my blow-up doll at your place? That’s why I’m assuming you do illegal things, Jagger. The question is…what?

I smirked. That had been a close call. Our parents had shown up unannounced, armed with banana bread and hugs . . . right around the time there had, in fact, been a dead body in my living room. I hadn’t technically been responsible for it, but it had still been there. As far as I knew, our parents no longer suspected I was hiding a corpse.

But I also couldn’t be sure.

Jace: Are you:

Jace: A) stealing cars

Jace: B) stealing people

Jace: C) doing something involving sharks

Jade: D) all of the above

I rolled my eyes, watching another crane begin its slow descent toward the containers.

Me: You forgot E) conducting legitimate business operations like a responsible adult. Also, why sharks?

I glanced up, and one of my guys gave me a nod. Everything was on schedule.

Jace: I feel like sharks would be something the mafia would be involved in.

I groaned.

Me: How many times do I have to tell you not to say that?

Jace: Say what?

Me: You know what. You’re not going to trick me into saying it this time.

Jace: I honestly don’t have any clue what you’re talking about.

Me: Don’t say mafia, you asshole.

Jace: If someone owns a million suits that each cost as much as my car and they never can explain where their money comes from . . . I’m going to say mafia.

Jace: Also you once said “I’ll handle it” and there was a headline about a dead guy the next day.

Me: Coincidence.

Jace: Sure. Just like the time I asked what you do, and you said “consulting” and changed the subject.

Me: I do consult people . . .on their life choices.

Jace: Do they live afterward?

I actually laughed at that one, and one of my guys shot me a confused look. Whoops.

Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Jace: See. That’s another non answer.

A forklift rumbled past, and I waited until it cleared before typing again.

Me: What do you actually want me to say?

Jace: The truth, obviously. Also Mom asked if you’re seeing anyone.

I paused, and for some reason I immediately thought of Eden . . . even though we weren’t exactly seeing each other.

Me: No.

Jace: That was the slowest no I’ve ever read. You met someone didn’t you? Someone who doesn’t make you want to answer calls during sex.

Me: You should actually feel flattered that I answered your call. It means I care.

Jace: It meant you were bored, actually, but we can go with you caring if it means something to you.

Me: Go catch a football.

Jace: Wow. Defensive. So is she hot?

Me: Goodbye, Jace.

Jace: Love you too, sketchy crime prince.

My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t have time to check his text. If Jace had decided he wanted to keep talking about sharks, he could wait.

One of my men peeled away from the edge of the dock and headed straight for me, his face arranged into the careful blankness men wear when they’re about to deliver news they very much hope won’t be blamed on them.

I hoped I didn’t have to blame it on him, either. I actually liked the guy.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said under his breath.

I slid my phone into my pocket and exhaled slowly, trying not to show how irritated I was. “Naturally.”

Maddox stepped in at my side, his suit still crisp despite the damp air rolling in off the water. He didn’t ask what the problem was. He could feel the shift in the air just as easily as I could. He matched my stride as we walked toward the container that had finished unloading a few minutes ago.

The docks were loud with the illusion of normalcy. Cranes groaned. Water slapped against pylons. Men shouted measurements and jokes like nothing in the world was wrong.

But the container doors were unlocked . . . That was the first issue. The second revealed itself the moment I looked inside.

I stopped short, staring into the hollow steel shell, the overhead lights throwing harsh reflections along bare metal walls that should have been stacked floor to ceiling. I dragged a hand down my face. “I really don’t have time for this.”

Maddox pulled out his tablet and swiped through the manifest, cross-checking container numbers and time stamps before he groaned. “Well,” he said evenly, tilting the screen toward me. “That’s a problem.”

I glanced down at the manifest, scanning the container ID, the route verification, the customs clearance stamps, all of it lining up exactly as it should. But the listed contents . . . Weapons . . . and not recreational ones. Oh good, this particular container had been storing our military-grade inventory . . .

“Yes,” I said stiffly. “It is.”

I glanced back toward the water, then to the men waiting for direction. “Lock the docks down,” I said evenly. “No one leaves until I know exactly how this happened.”

Maddox cracked his neck once, already reaching for his phone. “Want me to start digging?”

I looked back at the container, nodding in annoyance. “Yes,” I said. “Start with cameras. Then manifests. Then everyone who thought today was a good time to test my patience.”

Lawson arrived the way he always did when something had gone catastrophically wrong—unbothered, caffeinated, and faintly entertained by the chaos he’d been summoned into. He had a laptop tucked under one arm and a cold brew in the other, like this was a tech start-up and not a weapons shipment that had just evaporated.

Objectively, I believed that Lawson had the easiest job in the organization. And unobjectively . . . I was not wrong about that.

Lawson didn’t stand on docks at four in the morning. He didn’t negotiate face-to-face with men who treated eye contact like a declaration of war. He also didn’t clean up blood. Lawson sat in climate-controlled rooms with excellent Wi-Fi and better espresso, moving numbers around until reality bent itself in his favor.

Easy.

I would never say that to him, obviously. The last time someone had implied his job was “just computer stuff,” Lawson had smiled nicely . . . and then ruined the man’s life.

It had started with something almost forgettable, a delayed wire transfer that held up payroll just long enough to cause discomfort. But then there had been a flagged transaction that triggered internal compliance questions, and after that, purely by coincidence, of course, an inconvenient audit initiated by a quiet, anonymous tip to the IRS.

Within forty-eight hours, the man’s accounts were frozen “pending review.” Within seventy-two, photos from a private vacation he absolutely had not taken alone began circulating on three separate anonymous message boards, each one curated with time stamps, geotags, and just enough context to be devastating.

By the end of the week, his investors were nervous, his board was furious, and his wife had discovered that his “leadership retreat” in Monaco had involved significantly less leadership than advertised.

Lawson had done it all without leaving his ergonomic chair.

So no, I never told Lawson his job was easy. I enjoyed having access to my money.

Lawson didn’t so much sit as drape himself into the chair Maddox dragged over, stretching his long legs out like he’d just acquired waterfront property. His laptop was open before his back even hit the metal, and his fingers were already moving across the keys.

Lawson carried the kind of tan that suggested he answered encrypted emails from yachts. Unlike the rest of us, he could work from anywhere . . . and he did so, often. His dark brown hair was cut messily, a single blond streak falling forward no matter how many times he shoved it back. It gave him a perpetually reckless look that matched his hoodie and the grin always tugging at his mouth.

Maddox really hated Lawson’s hoodie.

“I love it when people try to be clever,” Lawson said, not looking up as his fingers flew across the keyboard. “It makes my job more fun.”

“Tell me you have something,” I replied, folding my arms as I stared at some graffiti on the warehouse wall opposite us, where, in bold spray paint, someone had immortalized the words Big Fart.

“Oh, I have lots of somethings,” Lawson said cheerfully. “Telemetry, AIS data, engine output, ballast fluctuations. I pulled the whole digital autobiography. This vessel has overshared.” He turned the screen and zoomed in with a flick of his fingers.

“Right here,” he continued. “Twenty miles off the coast, the engines reduced output for exactly eleven minutes. Not long enough to raise alarms, but definitely long enough to matter . . .”

Maddox leaned in. “That’s the window.”

“Exactly,” Lawson agreed, flashing him a grin that said he loved being right. “Long enough for a mid-water transfer if everyone involved knew their roles.”

I studied the screen, watching the data scroll past. Coordinates. Engine output. A neat little dip in performance, like a heartbeat skipped on purpose. “So they never came near the docks,” I said.

“Nope,” Lawson said. “This was all offshore. Someone with access, timing, and a truly inspirational amount of confidence.”

“That confidence,” I said evenly, “was misplaced.”

Lawson’s expression sharpened, the amusement turning focused. “I’m pulling traffic anomalies in the surrounding radius. There’s a vessel that tried very hard to blend into background noise. Which, ironically, made it glow.”

The captain came in then, pale and sweating, escorted by two of my men. He was older and thick through the middle. Salt was still crusted into his beard and on his collar, and his eyes were darting everywhere except at me. That told me most of what I needed. Innocent men tended to bluster . . . they got loud and offended.

This one was thinking.

Lawson didn’t bother looking up when the chair scraped against the concrete and the captain was encouraged into it. “Oh good,” he said pleasantly, still typing. “I was hoping we’d have a human element. Data is informative. People are . . . illustrative.”

The captain swallowed hard. “I already gave my statement.”

Maddox leaned against a crate, his arms folded and his suit somehow still flawless. I really needed to learn his secrets.

“You gave a statement,” Maddox agreed. “We’re just here for the honest one.”

I took my time walking toward the captain, letting the silence do some of the work for me. “Let’s not make this dramatic,” I said. “It’s been a long night, and I dislike repeating myself. Tell me why you slowed your engines⁠—”

The captain’s jaw worked. “I don’t know what you think⁠—”

I nodded once to my men, and the captain flinched as hands settled on his shoulders. Another set of hands yanked his arms behind the chair, plastic biting into his wrists as zip ties cinched tight.

Lawson finally glanced up, pursing his lips like he was appraising a piece of art. “Before we start,” he said thoughtfully, “I just want to point out that your ship slowed twenty miles off the coast for exactly eleven minutes. Which is impressive, because it means either your engine coughed at a very inconvenient moment . . . or someone asked you to do it.”

“I—I don’t⁠—”

Maddox sighed. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend confusion is going to save you.”

I crouched slightly so we were eye level. “Who boarded the ship?”

The captain shook his head, breathing fast. “No one boarded.”

That earned him looks from all three of us.

“Buddy,” Lawson said, wincing sympathetically, “the data says otherwise. And the data has never lied to me. People, on the other hand, lie constantly.”

I straightened and nodded again. The chair tipped just enough to make the captain yelp, panic breaking through his composure.

Maddox chuckled under his breath. “See? You’re already being much more honest.”

The captain was sweating through his collar now, and his teeth were clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jumping beneath his beard. He stared straight ahead with glassy, stubborn eyes, like if he didn’t look at us long enough, we might decide he wasn’t worth the effort.

That didn’t work for a squirrel crossing the street . . . and it wasn’t going to work for him.

Lawson kept typing, unbothered, the steady rhythm of keys cutting through the silence. Maddox glanced at his watch and exhaled faintly, as if the only real inconvenience here were that we were running behind schedule.

He pushed off the crate and circled the captain slowly, his shoes echoing against the concrete. “I’ve always admired this part,” he said conversationally. “The optimism. The belief that if you just hold out, something miraculous will happen.”

Still nothing.

One of my men stepped forward and placed a compact black case on the crate beside the chair. He opened it slowly, like he was unveiling priceless jewels instead of torture devices. Inside, everything was arranged with clinical precision.

I admired the slender pliers, the wire cutters, the narrow blade honed to a surgical gleam. Syringes rested in sterile packaging beside a small vial of clear liquid, and a pair of heavy clamps sat nestled in foam—industrial grade, weighty, the kind designed to grip bone and not let go.

The tools finally got a reaction out of the captain.

“Oh,” Lawson said, peering inside. “You brought the good ones. Nice.”

The captain’s pupils were blown wide, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked bursts, like a trapped animal that finally understood the cage had teeth.

“Who boarded the ship?” I said again. “How many? Who sent them?”

He swallowed so hard I heard the click in his throat as I picked up the pliers. “Wait⁠—”

I didn’t wait. I grabbed his left pinky, yanked it straight, and clamped the pliers around the nail bed. One clean, brutal twist, and the nail tore free with a wet rip. Blood welled instantly, and the captain screamed. I held up the bloody nail between us like a trophy, letting it drip onto his lap.

“The first one teaches you what it feels like,” I told him. “The rest just reinforce it.”

He was gasping now, sweat pouring down his face, mixing with the tears already streaming from his eyes. His body was shaking so violently that his chair was rattling.

Maddox leaned down, his voice almost kind. “You can stop this whenever you want.”

I wiped the pliers on the captain’s shirt, leaving a smear of red across the fabric. “Let’s try this once more. Who boarded the ship? How many? Who sent them?”

He shook his head frantically, snot and tears mixing on his upper lip. “I don’t— I swear I don’t⁠—”

I moved to the next finger, and this time I didn’t bother with the nail. I clamped the pliers around the joint and squeezed until I felt the bone give with a sickening pop. The scream that tore out of him was high-pitched, and I saw Lawson wince out of the corner of my eye. Blood trickled down the captain’s hand, dripping onto the concrete in steady plops.

I watched it pool for a moment, almost mesmerized.

“Three men,” the captain choked out. “Two from the dock crew . . . one I didn’t recognize. They came in on a blacked-out utility barge just after midnight. Someone had reached out to me last week about expecting it and where to be.”

I didn’t let go of his mangled finger at that news . . . I just twisted a little harder because it annoyed me that he’d betrayed us a week ago and I hadn’t found out.

He sobbed. “They took stuff from three containers—the ones marked for the Rossi shipment. They didn’t tell me why.”

Lawson perked up. “See? Progress.”

“Accents?” I asked.

The captain nodded eagerly. “Irish, maybe? One of them had a scar—across his cheek. They didn’t give names. Just cash.”

I released his hand, and it flopped uselessly against the armrest, blood smearing fresh streaks across the wood. “Good boy,” I murmured as I straightened, wiping my hands on the rag Lawson tossed me. The captain was shaking violently now, his face ashen, and his lips trembling so hard his teeth chattered.

“I told you everything,” he rasped. “I swear⁠—”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why this next part isn’t personal.”

His breathing grew even more frantic. “Then why?” he cried.

Maddox answered for me. “Because you still made the choice. And because choices like that need consequences that people can remember.”

Lawson shut his laptop and stood, stretching his shoulders as if he was clocking out of a long meeting. “Also,” he added mildly, “you’re now a liability. And we’re very particular about loose ends.”

The captain’s sobs continued. “Please,” he said. “I have kids.”

“So do a lot of men who don’t take bribes,” Maddox replied.

I stepped closer, meeting the captain’s gaze one last time. “You should’ve told us before we had to drag it out of you.”

The captain started begging in earnest, his words tumbling over one another, and more snot was bubbling from his nose as his tears streamed. I let him talk . . . I let the fear build until it filled every corner of him, and then I nodded to Maddox.

Maddox moved behind the chair and wrapped a thick plastic zip tie around the captain’s throat, letting him feel the cold bite of it against his skin. The captain’s eyes bulged, and he jerked and rocked the chair, strangled sounds escaping as Maddox pulled tighter. I watched the color drain and then surge back, his face darkening as veins rose along his forehead. His tongue pushed forward uselessly, and a thick, choking sound bubbled up from his throat.

Maddox kept pulling until the captain’s struggles slowed. His body jerked once more in a final, reflexive spasm, then went limp. The tie loosened abruptly, and he collapsed forward in the chair, his chin dropping to his chest and his eyes wide and unfocused as they fixed on nothing at all.

Silence settled in the warehouse again, broken only by the distant groan of cranes outside and the slap of water against the pilings beneath the dock doors.

Lawson exhaled slowly. “I assume you’re going to make sure this travels.”

I brushed nonexistent dust from my sleeve. “Naturally.”

Maddox already had the body halfway off the chair, one arm hooked under his shoulder like he was helping a drunk friend instead of handling a liability. Two of my men moved toward the open loading bay at the far end of the warehouse. Beyond the concrete lip, the water shifted black beneath the structure, and the tide rolled in and out.

One of my men looped the chain around the captain’s ankles while another secured the weight at his waist, the metal clinking softly against concrete. The body sagged between them as they worked with practiced efficiency.

Only when everything was tight did they haul him the rest of the way to the edge. There was a brief shift of balance, and then they tipped him forward. The splash was low and contained, more displacement than spectacle, and I stepped closer to the open bay for a moment, watching the surface settle back into its natural rhythm.

“Find me the men who boarded that ship,” I ordered. “Every name. Every connection. I want to know who thought this was worth the risk. I’d probably start with the Irish, obviously.”

Lawson’s laptop was open again, and he grinned without looking away. “Already in progress.”

“Atta boy,” I muttered, pulling out my phone. “Now to get the helicopter.”

That got their attention.

Maddox looked up first, one brow lifting slowly. “We just disposed of a body.”

“Yes,” I said. “And I’m very proud of us.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Back to the city,” I replied. “I’ve had enough of this zip code for one morning.”

Lawson’s fingers slowed as his gaze flicked up from the screen. “Funny timing,” he said lightly. “Your girl’s working tonight.”

I paused just long enough for Maddox to catch it.

“‘Your girl’?” Maddox echoed, amusement slipping into his voice.

I shot Lawson a look. “She is not my⁠—”

“She’s the cocktail waitress at Paradise,” Lawson continued. “Green eyes. Bus pass. Questionable husband. Ring any bells?”

Maddox’s grin was even more annoying than usual. “Oh. That girl.”

“You both have entirely too much time on your hands,” I growled as I slid my phone back into my pocket.

Lawson snorted, brushing that persistent blond streak out of his eyes. “We absolutely do not,” he said. “But this is significantly more entertaining than tracking maritime theft.”

Maddox clapped me once on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Go handle your . . . business. We’ll clean this up.”

I shook my head and started toward the helipad, the low thrum of the rotors already building in the distance. Behind me, Lawson’s voice carried easily over the concrete. “Text us if she throws a drink in your face,” he called out. “I want the footage. Strictly for operational analysis, of course.”

I sighed and ignored him.

But as the helicopter blades tore through the night and the dock lights fell away beneath me, I was having trouble thinking about who had stolen from us . . . because all I could think of were the color of Eden’s eyes.

CHAPTER 8

EDEN

From the moment I stepped off the bus, the entire walk to the apartment became a rehearsal.

My feet ached in that familiar way that meant I’d been standing too long, and my cheeks were sore from smiling too much, but I barely noticed. I was too busy running through the words in my head. How I’d start. How calm I’d sound. How I wouldn’t let my voice shake because he was going to understand.

Ryan, we need to talk.

No. Too cliché.

Ryan, I can’t keep doing this.

Better. Stronger.

By the time I reached the apartment complex and started up the cracked concrete steps toward our place, I’d already replayed the conversation a dozen different ways in my head.

But the music hit me before I even reached the door.

Bass pounded through the thin walls, rattling the door hard enough that the knob quivered on its own. I slowed, dread pooling in my stomach, and stopped with my hand hovering inches from the latch. For a moment, I simply stood there, my shoulders rigid, and my eyes drifting shut as I drew in a few deep breaths while the noise pulsed on the other side.

Please don’t let this be what I think it is.

I pushed inside, and smoke rolled over me immediately, clinging to my clothes and hair like it had been waiting. The apartment was hazy, the air heavy with weed and cheap alcohol, too many bodies crammed into a space that was barely big enough for the two of us on a good day.

Ryan was on the couch with a group of guys I didn’t recognize, a joint between his fingers, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. When he saw me, he lurched to his feet, swaying slightly as he grinned. “Hey, babe,” he said, blinking hard. “Why’re you home already?”

Already. Had he really just said that?

I stared at him, then at the clock on the oven, its glowing numbers screaming the truth he clearly hadn’t noticed. His smile faltered as realization dawned, a brief flash of embarrassment crossing his face far too late to help him.

“It’s—” he started, then stopped. “Oh.”

Something in me snapped. “Everyone out,” I screamed, the sound tearing out of my chest. “Get out. Now.”

The room immediately went quiet except for the music, like they were all waiting to see if I meant it. Then one of them laughed under his breath and headed for the door. “Fucking hell,” he muttered as he passed me. “What a bitch.”

The word hit, but I didn’t react. I just stood there, shaking, watching them file out one by one, smoke trailing behind them, bottles clinking, laughter fading down the stairs. When the door finally slammed shut, somehow the apartment felt smaller than ever. The music kept playing, obnoxious and loud, and I crossed the room to turn it off with a jab of my finger.

Ryan stood there, swaying slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Eden, I didn’t know what time it was,” he said, already defensive. “They just stopped by. It wasn’t⁠—”

I laughed, but it came out broken. “I was going to talk to you,” I said, my voice shaking with emotion. “I was actually excited to talk to you.”

He frowned. “About what?”

I looked around the wrecked living room, at the smoke-stained walls, the empty bottles, the couch that smelled like everything except home, and a tear slipped down my face. “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered.

I turned toward the bedroom, kicking off my shoes as I went, exhaustion dragging at every step. I had barely enough energy left to stand upright—and somehow I still had a full shift ahead of me at the casino.

For a fleeting second, I considered the appeal of simply collapsing where I stood and letting the universe take it from there. At least then I’d be out of my misery.

I barely made it three steps before Ryan started talking, his words tumbling out like if he said them fast enough, I’d forget what I’d just walked into. “They’re business associates,” he said quickly, gesturing back toward the door like that explained the smoke, the mess, and the strangers. “You were gonna be excited, Ed. I was gonna tell you. Things are finally happening. I’ve got stuff lined up.”

Business associates.

I turned slowly and looked at him, really looked at him, at the hope flickering there, at the familiar shine in his eyes that used to mean belief and now just meant he was high.

“I was excited,” I said quietly. The calm in my voice surprised even me. “I was walking home, thinking about how to talk to you. About quitting one job. About maybe taking classes. About us finally moving forward.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said, and the words felt heavy and true, like they’d been waiting years for air.

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re just tired. You don’t mean that.”

“I need to take a nap, and then I have to get ready for my second job,” I replied, already turning away. “We’ll talk later.”

I went into the bedroom.

And stopped.

There were bodies on my bed—three of them, slick with sweat and tangled in my sheets. Two women and a man I didn’t recognize were all naked, with their limbs wrapped around one another in a lazy, postfuck sprawl. One woman was still straddling the man, her breasts bare and flushed, her hips rocking slowly like she hadn’t quite come down yet. The other woman was pressed to his side with her mouth on his neck and her hand between her legs stroking herself lazily while she groaned. The sheets were twisted around their waists, and my comforter was shoved half off the mattress, the pillow I used kicked to the floor and stained with something dark and wet.

The condom wrapper and the bottle of lube that was lying on its side on my nightstand, dripping all over the wood, really capped everything off.

The woman on top noticed me first. She froze mid-roll, and her eyes widened while her mouth formed a perfect little O of shock as she looked from me to the man still buried inside her.

For one long, endless second, no one moved.

Then she scrambled upright, yanking the sheet over her breasts like it could erase the sight of her riding a stranger on my bed. The man sat up fast, his dick bobbing and his face flushed from exertion and surprise.

“Oh my gosh,” one of them said, fumbling for clothes. “We⁠—”

“Out,” I said numbly. “Get out. Now.”

They didn’t argue. They grabbed whatever they could—clothes, phones, dignity—and fled. The front door slammed shut, and I stood there, staring at how my bed was now a mess of twisted sheets, wet spots, and the lingering scent of people who weren’t me. So much for a nap before my shift.

Something inside me went utterly still. There wasn’t rage or heartbreak; there was just . . . nothing. A cold, perfect quiet, like the world had finally stopped screaming and my heartbeat had ceased to exist.

“Eden—” Ryan said desperately.

I turned on him, the room seeming to spin. “You let people into our bed.”

He went pale. “I didn’t—I didn’t think⁠—”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “You don’t think.”

Ryan’s knees hit the floor hard, his body giving out before his pride did. He grabbed at my legs. “Please,” he said in a breaking, panicked voice. “I’ll change. I swear. I’ll stop. I’ll do better. Just don’t give up on me.”

I looked down at him, at the boy who’d once walked me to the bus stop, who’d promised me the world with such certainty I’d believed it without question.

“I’ve been lied to my whole life,” I said softly, “by everyone who ever told me they’d take care of me.”

He shook his head desperately. “I’m not like them.”

“I believed that,” I whispered. “Out of all of it, I believed you’d never be part of that.”

The silence between us felt fragile, stretched thin and trembling as I pulled my legs free and stepped back, pressing a hand to my chest in an attempt to steady what was breaking there. “This is it,” I said. “This is your last chance.”

His head snapped up. “I’ll do it. Whatever you want. I swear.”

“You don’t swear,” I said. “You show me.” I turned away before I could change my mind, before hope could get its stupid hooks in too deep again. “I have work,” I added quietly. “We’ll talk after. And Ryan?”

He froze.

“If this happens again,” I said, my voice steady now, “there won’t be another conversation.”

I closed the bedroom door and leaned against it for just a second, breathing through the ache, knowing even as I gave him one more chance that something fundamental had already cracked.

No matter what he did, we’d never be whole again.

I was stacking glasses behind the bar, lining them up by muscle memory more than thought, when I suddenly became aware of someone standing very close behind me. I turned quickly, my heart giving an embarrassing jolt as I swiveled around and saw my blond stranger.

Not yours, Eden. What the fuck are you talking about?

His suit jacket was gone, his shirtsleeves pushed up, and his tie was loosened like the night had taken a toll on him. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes and a weariness in the set of his shoulders . . . but it didn’t dull him. He was still unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.

Relief bloomed in my chest before I could crush it.

Relief.

Which was insane and completely inappropriate.

I straightened quickly, my fingers tightening around the glass in my hand, as if that would anchor me back to sanity.

“Hi,” he said.

Like it always did when I heard his voice, my breath stuttered, and I had to focus hard on setting the glass down before I broke it. “You can’t just do that,” I said, aiming for annoyance and landing somewhere closer to rattled. “Sneak up on people.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I’ll take that under consideration. Though, I’m fairly certain walking up in full view doesn’t qualify as sneaking.”

I didn’t really have a retort for that. I’d slept maybe an hour in the last two days, and my brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. “Do you need something?” I asked finally.

His eyes dipped briefly to the glasses on the tray in front of me, then lifted back to my face, his gorgeous brown gaze holding mine with unsettling focus. “You look exhausted,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”

The sincerity of it caught me off guard, and I had to force myself to smile to cover up my surprise. “So . . . in other words, I look like hell.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant,” I teased, taking a small step back because he was still standing too close, and my brain was already malfunctioning.

His expression shifted back to looking concerned. “Why don’t you go home?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You look like you’re running on fumes,” he said evenly. “Call it a night.”

A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Yeah, I don’t think my boss would be thrilled by that suggestion.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “You might be surprised.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Just that sometimes bosses are more reasonable than people assume.”

“Right.” I folded my arms, trying to ignore how good he looked. “Well, mine isn’t. And even if he were, I can’t afford to just walk out.”

His gaze softened slightly. “Why not?”

I hesitated. I didn’t know why I was even entertaining this conversation. I didn’t owe him explanations. But something about the way he was looking at me—like he actually cared about the answer—it made my guard slip just a fraction.

“It’s Friday,” I admitted quietly. “Tips are always best on Fridays.”

Understanding flickered across his face.

“And I need the tips,” I added, hating the vulnerability in my voice. “So unless you’re planning to cover my rent for the month . . .”

His eyes held mine, unreadable now. “Maybe I am,” he mused.

Now I was the one rolling my eyes. “Right,” I said dryly. “And maybe I’m secretly a trust fund heiress doing this for fun.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, but he looked too amused for it to be because of my bad joke. I took a deep breath and reached for the tray again. “I’m going to get back to work now.”

A faint dissatisfied sound left him, like he didn’t love that answer but wasn’t going to argue with me. “Me too,” he finally said.

He hadn’t offered a single real detail about himself since the night I’d first met him, and before I could stop myself, curiosity slipped past my caution. “Doing what?” I asked.

Something shifted in his expression, and he had that satisfied gleam in his eye that was starting to become familiar . . . like I’d just stepped exactly where he’d been waiting for me to once again. Heat crawled up my neck.

“This and that,” he said lightly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s my favorite kind.”

I stared at him for a second, then scoffed and turned back to the glasses, sliding another into place just to give my hands something to do. “You’re very vague.”

“Occupational hazard.”

I glanced back at him over my shoulder. “But you’re at least telling me that you do more than haunt coffee shops and high roller rooms.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though he was about to confess a state secret. “Sometimes I attend meetings,” he dramatically whispered. “And occasionally I even solve problems.”

I blinked at him. “That sounds fake.”

He grinned. “It sounds corporate, you mean.”

“You don’t look corporate,” I responded, thinking of his little knife incident.

“That’s devastating,” he murmured. “Because I’ve really been working on my spreadsheet persona.”

I shook my head, unable to stop the small laugh that slipped out. “So what, you sit in conference rooms and say things like, ‘Let’s circle back’?”

He considered that seriously. “Only when I want to frighten people.”

“That’s not frightening.”

“Usually it is,” he said.

I didn’t even know what he meant, but another short, startled laugh slipped out of me anyway—and that was apparently all the encouragement he needed.

“You’re being curious tonight,” he observed. “That’s new.”

“You keep appearing wherever I am,” I shot back. “I’m just doing basic background checks to make sure you’re not a psychopath.”

His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing in interest rather than offense. “Are you close to a conclusion?” he asked calmly.

I hesitated. “That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether you’re about to give me a normal answer to anything.”

“And what would you consider normal?” he asked.

“Something specific,” I said. “Something that doesn’t sound like you’re auditioning to be a mysterious villain . . . something like your name.” The words left my mouth before I could second-guess them.

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down slowly as if he were considering the weight of what I’d asked. “If I tell you that,” he said slowly, “it means we’re friends.”

My brows drew together. “That’s . . . an odd rule.”

He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I have a few.”

“And what if I don’t want to be friends?”

He grinned confidently. “Then you won’t ask again, but just so you know, literally everyone wants to be my friend.”

I held his gaze, trying to figure out whether this was a game or a test. My pulse thudded traitorously in my ears.

“Fine,” I said at last, like I wasn’t giving anything away.

“Fine,” he echoed, still watching me as though he was cataloging the moment.

I turned back to the glasses, forcing my breathing to even out, pretending I hadn’t just stepped over another invisible boundary with a man who seemed to collect them like trophies.

A few seconds passed, and I assumed that was it as I listened to him move away from the bar. Then, just as I’d convinced myself I didn’t care⁠—

“Jagger,” he called out casually.

My hand stilled mid-reach.

“That’s my name.”

And I didn’t know why that sent a chill down my spine.

But it did.

An hour later, my feet officially stopped cooperating.

I turned too quickly near the service station, and my heel caught on the edge of the carpet runner. My ankle wobbled, and for a split second I genuinely thought I was going down—tray, dignity, and all.

A hand shot out to steady my elbow. “Whoa there.”

I looked up, mortified, and found Carl staring at me.

“I’m fine,” I said immediately. “Totally fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. His usual harried expression was replaced with something almost . . . cautious.

“Eden,” he said carefully, his gaze dropping in what seemed to be a subtle scan of the room. “You can be done for the night.”

I froze. “What?”

“You’re good,” he repeated. “Go ahead and clock out.”

My stomach dropped in panic. “Did I do something?”

“No.” He shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. We just . . . overstaffed tonight.”

“It’s Friday.” I stared at him. “We don’t overstaff Fridays.”

He shifted his weight. “Well. Tonight we did.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I still have three hours left.”

“You’ll be paid out,” he said quickly. “For the full shift.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’ll be paid out,” he repeated, a little more firmly this time. “And there’s a bonus.”

A bonus.

“For what?” I asked, well aware of the fact I needed to shut up but unable to stop questioning what was happening.

“For . . .” He cleared his throat. “Flexibility.”

I stared at him like he’d just started speaking another language. Carl did not give bonuses for flexibility. Carl barely approved of breathing breaks.

“I—” My brain scrambled to keep up. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He nodded too fast. “Absolutely. Go home. Get some rest.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten, and I hesitated for one more second before I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He looked relieved, and that made me only more confused about what was happening.

I went to clock out, my hands slightly unsteady as I signed the slip and tucked the envelope into my bag. It felt thicker than the tips I usually went home with.

As I headed toward the employee exit, the noise of the casino swelling behind me, I tried to convince myself this was a coincidence. That overstaffing happened. That bonuses sometimes appeared out of nowhere.

But as I pushed through the door and the hot night air hit my face, one thought kept circling.

Jagger.

How he’d told me to go home. How he’d said maybe he would cover my rent.

I didn’t know how he would have done it.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t simply a coincidence.

CHAPTER 9

JAGGER

The city streaked by me in ribbons of neon signs and red brake lights, the wind tearing past as the bike devoured the asphalt. By the time I peeled off my helmet and got up to my penthouse, my shoulders had finally loosened.

That lasted about three seconds.

My hand moved before my brain caught up—gun drawn, arm extended, and the safety already off.

“Fuck—” I stopped short, my instincts flaring as I registered the man stretched out on my couch like he’d been invited, one ankle crossed over a knee and his suit jacket draped with careful precision over the armrest.

Cruz lifted his glass in greeting. “You’re jumpy.”

I took in the amber liquid . . . and then the bottle sitting open on the bar.

My most expensive one, of course.

“You’re a damn cat,” I muttered as the elevator doors slid shut behind me with a soft hydraulic whisper. I dropped my gun on a table, not particularly caring if it went off and shot him. “And far too many people have access to my penthouse.”

He smiled. “You should change the codes more often.”

“I do,” I said, moving to the bar and glaring at the bottle he’d opened. Shaking my head, I resigned myself to the fact that the bottle I’d been saving was now ruined. I picked it up anyway and poured myself a glass. “You somehow get in anyway.”

“We’ve known each other since you were still pretending you didn’t like expensive things,” Cruz said. “Of course I can guess all your passwords.”

I took a long swallow, letting the burn settle before I answered him. “You’re not guessing my passwords, Cruz.”

“What do you mean?” he asked innocently.

“I know you watch me,” I huffed. “I just haven’t had the time to figure out exactly how you’re doing it.”

Cruz’s smile widened just enough to confirm it.

“You and Jace both have boundary issues when it comes to relationships,” I said, gesturing at him with my glass. “And just because I haven’t decided whether I’m impressed or irritated that I haven’t figured out how you’re doing it yet doesn’t mean you should keep doing it.”

Cruz took another slow sip of the scotch I planned to send him an invoice for. “‘Boundary issues’?” he echoed mildly. “I think Jace and I share that trait with you as well.”

I glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cruz didn’t blink. “Oh, you didn’t think I’d noticed your new nightly routine?” he drawled.

I held his stare but refused to give him anything because he was annoying as fuck.

“She closes the coffee shop. You’re parked across the street. She works the casino. You’re at the bar. She gets on the bus. You follow two cars back. She walks the last block. You wait until the light in her apartment turns on before you leave.”

He took another sip of my scotch. “Repeat.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “It’s creepy that you know all of that, by the way. But also, if I have to explain myself, I do all of that because she lives in a bad part of the city.”

“So do half the people we’ve dealt with,” he replied. “You don’t trail them home.”

I leaned back against the bar. “You want to get to the point?”

“The point,” Cruz said, rising and stepping closer, “is that this stopped being casual somewhere around day three.”

I didn’t bother denying it. “She’s married,” I said instead.

Cruz’s expression didn’t change. “I’m aware.”

“She’s exhausted. Overworked. She looks over her shoulder like she expects something to follow her home.”

“And you decided that something might as well be you.”

I met his gaze. “Someone should.”

“That’s never been your philosophy before.”

Silence stretched between us, and the city lights flickered behind him, reflected in the glass like a second skyline suspended in the dark.

“I’m going to get rid of her husband,” I said finally.

Cruz smiled like that was adorable instead of murdery. “Are you?” His voice held curiousity, not incredulity . . . which somewhat made up for my scotch. I liked when he was a supportive king.

“You already had Lawson look into him?” he asked, studying me over the rim of the glass.

“Of course,” I said. “He’s a dead end. No job. No ambition. He’s perpetually high, and all he does is drag her down. He’s using her.”

“Hmm,” Cruz mused as he walked to the window. “And what happens if you actually sit across from her one day and she isn’t what you’ve decided she is?”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He glanced back at me. “What happens if she’s nothing more than a good fuck?”

I growled like he’d insulted her, and he held up his hands innocently.

“I’m just saying . . . you’re making a lot of assumptions here. Maybe you should sleep with her first before you decide to go all Murder, She Wrote.”

“That the latest novel you’ve read, Cruz?” I asked, laughing as I pretended his words weren’t landing.

At first it had been my goal to fuck her and be done.

I’d told myself that what I was feeling was just appetite, the thrill of the chase. She was gorgeous and off-limits. Of course I wanted her.

It would have been really convenient if that’s how it had stayed.

Unfortunately for my criminal record, every time I talked to her, that shifted.

It wasn’t just her face. It was the steel under it. The way she held eye contact, like she refused to shrink. The way she absorbed insult and still stood upright. The way she worked double shifts and never let its toll be visible until she thought no one was looking.

It was the flash of temper she tried to swallow. The intelligence she downplayed. The quiet pride stitched through everything she did.

It was the way she challenged me.

The way she didn’t fawn. Didn’t flatter. Didn’t flinch.

She wasn’t a passing impulse.

I stared into my glass like it held all the answers I was looking for. When I finally spoke, my voice was certain. “She’s everything.”

Cruz made a choking sound, and I did an inner fist pump because it was almost impossible to surprise the guy. “You sound pretty confident, Thatcher.”

“I am.”

He nodded slowly. “You better be certain she’ll never find out,” he said quietly. “Because if she does, there’s no coming back from that.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “She won’t find out.”

He studied me for another beat, then reached for his jacket. “Thanks for the drink . . . and for not shooting me. It’s been fun as ever.”

I huffed. “I’m charging you for that bottle,” I called after him as he stepped into the elevator.

Cruz responded by throwing a stack of bills into the living room.

The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with the city lights and the certainty settling deeper into my bones.

I hadn’t crossed the line yet. But I knew exactly where it was.

And I was done pretending I wouldn’t step over it.

Eden

I woke to the smell of coffee.

That alone was enough to disorient me. Had I fallen asleep at the coffee shop during my shift?

I blinked against the light and rolled onto my side, still exhausted. Ryan stood beside the bed, holding out a paper cup like it was an offering. He was already dressed in jeans and a clean shirt, and his hair was still damp from a shower, combed back with a level of care I hadn’t seen from him in months.

“Morning,” he said carefully, as though he was approaching something that might detonate if he stepped wrong.

I pushed myself up on one elbow, the blanket slipping to my waist. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice coming out in a defeated croak.

He winced, then straightened, resolve settling over his features. “I’m getting a job today. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care how many places I have to go. I’m not losing you.”

I’m not losing you.

My fingers tightened slightly around the blanket in my lap. His words were still making me feel nothing . . . maybe he really had broken me this time.

Ryan held the coffee out again, closer this time. I stared at it for a second too long before taking it.

“Thanks,” I murmured half-heartedly.

Relief lit up his face like I’d handed him forgiveness instead of a single syllable. He dropped onto the edge of the bed, his knees bouncing, and energy buzzing off him in tight, restless bursts.

“I mean it, Eden,” he said quickly. “I screwed up. I know that. But I’m fixing it. Starting now.”

I nodded slowly, taking a sip. He’d gone to the cheap place on the corner to get this, the one we used to go to when we first moved here.

“I’m serious,” he said again, searching my face. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

I swallowed and dropped my gaze to the coffee, letting the rising steam give me something to focus on so he wouldn’t see how empty my expression had become.

Trust didn’t break all at once. It wore thin. Frayed. It disappeared in inches, not miles. And once it was gone, no amount of coffee or promises could just . . . put it back where it belonged.

“I hope you do,” I finally told him.

He reached for my hand, intent on offering reassurance, but I pulled it away and curled both hands around the cup instead, using his peace offering as a barrier.

Ryan noticed, of course, but he nodded, taking it as fuel for his determination. “I won’t let you down again,” he said, sliding off the bed. He hesitated for a second like he wanted to say more, then left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stared at the closed door long after his footsteps had faded, then finally pushed myself upright, forcing my body into motion for another day I wasn’t sure I had the energy to face.

When I walked into the living room thirty minutes later, Ryan was sitting on the edge of the couch with his own coffee cup cradled between his hands. The music was off. The ashtray was gone. Sunlight crept through the blinds and caught on his face in a way that made him look younger. Lost. Like he was waiting for instructions he didn’t trust himself to follow.

Ryan looked up when he saw me. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I echoed.

He gestured vaguely with the cup. “I’ve been thinking.”

That made my stomach tighten, but I stayed where I was.

“When I get a job,” he continued earnestly, “you should quit one of yours. At least one. Maybe both, if I can swing it. You could sign up for classes. Community college, night classes, whatever you want.”

I blinked. “Ryan⁠—”

“No,” he said quickly, standing. “Listen. That’s how it should’ve always been. You shouldn’t have been killing yourself like this. You were always smarter than me anyway.”

I didn’t know what to say, and he took a step closer, then another, gauging the distance, waiting to see if I’d pull back. “You should’ve been the one going somewhere,” he added. “I just . . . got lost.”

His words should have cracked something open in me.

They should have felt like relief.

I searched for it—for hope, for gratitude, for that old rush of maybe this is the turning point. I dug for anger, too, for resentment, for anything sharp enough to cut through my haze.

But nothing surfaced.

All I could feel was that flat, echoing quiet.

My nails bit into my palms, and I waited for my chest to react. For my throat to burn. For my eyes to sting.

There was nothing there.

A flicker of unease slid through me. What was wrong with me? This was everything I had asked for months ago. Effort. Accountability. A plan. Him finally admitting I had been carrying too much.

And all I felt was . . . numb.

Ryan reached for me tentatively and then pulled me into his arms like he was afraid I might disappear if he didn’t. His mouth found mine, and I kissed him back because it felt like the right thing to do. I tried to pour everything I wanted into that kiss. The years. The promises. The girl who’d once believed getting out was inevitable if you just loved someone hard enough.

For a moment, it almost worked.

He held me like he meant it . . . like he was trying to drag us back to a place we’d already wandered too far from. I kissed him back and let myself pretend that this could be the beginning instead of a last attempt. That maybe believing him wasn’t naïve. That maybe this time, he would follow through.

But that distant, unreachable part of me was also wondering . . . how many chances love was allowed before it stopped being love and turned into something else entirely.

He finally pulled away, and I studied his face, trying to remember what loving him had felt like, trying to drag even a spark of it back to the surface.

But it was like reaching into a room that had already been emptied.

Bare walls and . . .

Nothing.

CHAPTER 10

EDEN

The bell over the door jingled again.

I didn’t look up right away. I was mid-pour, trying to angle the pitcher just right so I didn’t scald myself with the steam curling around my fingers.

“Good morning, Eden.”

I jerked, and the pitcher tipped too far. A stream of near-boiling coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup and straight onto my hand. “Shit⁠—”

The heat hit a split second later.

I dropped the pitcher with a metallic clatter and yanked my hand back, coffee splashing across the counter and dripping onto the floor. My skin flared red almost instantly.

A sharp breath tore out of me as the sting bloomed across my skin. I blinked hard, fighting the reflex to curse again, and grabbed a rag with my uninjured hand, pressing it against the burn while the heat throbbed under the surface.

There was a sudden groan of wood, followed by the thud of shoes hitting the floor as someone vaulted the counter. Before I could even process it, strong fingers wrapped around my wrist, and the rag was pulled away.

“Eden,” Jagger murmured anxiously, his eyes dark with something that bordered on panic. He cradled my hand between both of his like it was made of glass, turning it carefully to examine the damage.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he said roughly, all trace of his normal teasing tone gone. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I should’ve waited until you’d turned around. I’m sorry.” His thumb hovered just shy of the reddened skin, not quite touching it.

“I’m fi . . .” I started automatically.

The words stalled halfway out.

Jagger lifted his gaze from my hand to my face, and everything inside me went still. We were close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that the rest of the room seemed to recede, like the world had narrowed down to the space his hands occupied around mine. His grip was careful and protective . . . but it wasn’t the burn making my pulse jump anymore.

It was him.

The way his fingers wrapped around mine like he wasn’t planning on letting go. The way his jaw tightened like he was furious at himself. The way he looked at me, like I mattered in a way that felt irreversible.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. The shop noise faded into a distant blur. It felt as though we were standing inside something private and real and . . . entirely inappropriate. I realized, with a sudden rush of panic, that his touch was doing far more to me than the burn ever could.

I yanked my hand back as I remembered where I was. “I’m f-fine,” I stuttered again, the words tripping over themselves. My throat tightened without warning, and I hated that my eyes stung. I pressed the rag back against my palm harder than necessary, focusing on the bite of pain because it was easier than focusing on the way my chest felt like it was splitting open.

Never once in my marriage had I felt anything like that, not even when things were good.

I didn’t feel it when Ryan touched me or kissed me . . . I didn’t even feel it when he told me he loved me.

I tried to remember if I had ever experienced that breathless, dizzying awareness with my husband. Even on the rare nights he’d walked me to the bus stop, even when he’d tried to be attentive, there had never been that fierce, instinctive protectiveness. I had believed Ryan saw me. I had believed that because we came from the same broken place, we understood each other in a way no one else could.

But I was starting to understand that we had just been surviving side by side. Not seeing. Not choosing. Just clinging.

And the cruelest part wasn’t that I hadn’t felt this before. It was that I had felt it now.

For one suspended, reckless moment, I had known what it was like to be looked at like I was the most important thing in someone’s life. To be held as if someone would break the world before they let it break me.

And I already knew I couldn’t experience that again.

There is a particular kind of ache in discovering something you never knew you were missing, only to realize it was never meant to be yours. It’s like being handed warmth in the middle of winter and being told you can’t keep it.

Now I had a measure for what was possible, and I would have to go back to living without it.

“You need to get out from behind the counter,” I said suddenly, my voice wavering at the edges. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” The pain I was feeling must have been obvious, because he actually flinched.

Only then did I become aware of the silence around us. The way conversations had stalled. The way customers were staring openly. Mara was by the pastry case, frozen in place. We had just made a huge scene.

As if summoned by the tension itself, the door to the back office swung open. Shelby, the owner of the shop, stepped out, already looking irritated. “Eden, what the hell is going on⁠—”

She stopped when her eyes landed on Jagger. The color drained from her face so fast it was almost impressive. “Oh wow,” she breathed, smoothing a hand over her apron like she’d just realized she was wearing it. “Mr. Thatcher. I—I didn’t realize you were here.”

Shelby knew him?

Jagger straightened slowly, all his previous concern sliding back behind the arrogant smirk he usually wore.

Shelby’s voice turned syrupy. “Is everything okay? Do you need anything?”

I stared at her. In the three years I’d worked here, I had heard Shelby snap at suppliers, argue with customers, and once reduce a new hire to tears over a crooked pastry display despite the fact that our pastries were dry and tasteless and were rarely ever bought. I had never, ever, heard her sound like that.

Was she going to start bowing to him? That didn’t seem too far-fetched with how she was behaving. And Jagger didn’t even look surprised.

Shelby’s gaze dropped from Jagger’s face to the counter and to the coffee still dripping onto the tile. Her expression changed instantly. “Eden,” she snapped, panic edging her voice, “what did you do?”

“What?” I asked, confused.

Shelby rushed forward, her eyes darting between the spill and Jagger as if she was assessing catastrophic damage. “Mr. Thatcher, I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Eden is usually very careful.”

“It’s my fault; I startled her,” Jagger said evenly.

Shelby waved that off, dismissing it as a misunderstanding. “Of course. Of course. I’m sure you didn’t mean to. Eden—” she hissed my name under her breath. “What happened?”

I was beginning to feel some whiplash from how she was acting. He was the one behind the counter. He was the one who’d vaulted the counter like an unhinged superhero. How was this my fault? “I dropped the pitcher,” I explained. “That’s it.”

Shelby’s eyes widened slightly at my tone, but she recovered fast, plastering on a brittle smile. “We will absolutely remake whatever you ordered, Mr. Thatcher. On the house. Obviously.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Jagger repeated, sounding annoyed now.

Shelby gave a tight, anxious laugh. “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t,” she said in a way that let me know she was definitely going to be firing me after this. My ears burned with dread.

Jagger’s jaw flexed. “She’s actually the best employee I’ve seen in a long time,” he said calmly. “And I would be quite disappointed if she wasn’t working the next time I came in.”

Shelby’s mouth dropped open as Jagger reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the counter beside the spreading stain. “For the mess,” he said.

My boss stared at it like it was sacred while he moved out from behind the counter. Jagger placed another bill on the counter once he reached the other side. “And for the disruption.”

Shelby swallowed. “That’s— Thank you. That’s very generous.”

Jagger didn’t acknowledge her, but he did give me one more loaded, lingering gaze before turning and walking toward the door. Conversations slowly resumed in hushed murmurs as the door swung closed behind him.

Shelby and I stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching him cross the street. When he disappeared from view, she let out a breath she’d clearly been holding. “I hope,” she said quietly, still staring at the door, “you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I said immediately.

She turned her head slowly to look at me. “That,” she replied, not unkindly, “is what every woman says right before she does.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said suddenly, feeling like I had lost my mind as I darted toward the door and stepped outside into the harsh sunlight.

“Jagger,” I called down the sidewalk, my voice chasing him as he slid into the glossy black car waiting for him.

He immediately got out of the car at the sound of my voice, shutting the door without taking his eyes off me. “What’s wrong?” he asked, already crossing the small stretch of pavement between us.

The question hit harder than it should have. Nothing is wrong. Everything is wrong.

I stopped a few feet from him, folding my arms like that might keep my heart from trying to leap out of my chest. “You’re wasting your time with me,” I said firmly. “Completely. Whatever you think this is, whatever curiosity you’re indulging . . . it’s not going anywhere.”

His gaze held mine. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m married. I’m exhausted. My life is complicated and not in a fun way. I don’t have space for whatever this”—I gestured vaguely between us—“is supposed to be.”

A car honked from somewhere behind me, but he didn’t look away.

“You don’t know me,” I continued. “You don’t know my situation. You don’t know what you’re stepping into. And I promise you, it’s not worth it. I’m not the fun time a guy like you is looking for.”

His expression didn’t shift.

“If you’re looking for something easy,” I added, swallowing, “I am not it.”

Something flickered in his eyes at that. “I’m not looking for easy or fun,” he said.

“Jagger, come on!” I snapped.

“I’m not,” he said firmly.

I shook my head, frustration bleeding through now. “You show up at my jobs. You tip like you’re trying to buy goodwill. You jump counters. You make statements to my boss like you’re issuing orders. That doesn’t end well for someone like me.”

“‘Someone like you’?” he repeated.

I held his stare. “Someone who can’t afford to make mistakes.”

The air between us shifted as he stepped closer, not crowding me, but near enough that I had to tilt my chin up.

“I don’t indulge curiosities, Eden,” he said, and his voice had lost its teasing edge entirely. “And I don’t start things I don’t intend to finish.”

“I’m telling you to stop,” I whispered desperately.

He studied my face like he was memorizing it. “No,” he said simply.

The word wasn’t loud or aggressive . . . it was absolute.

“You don’t get to decide for me what’s worth my time,” he continued. “And you don’t get to push me away because you’re scared of what it might cost.”

My throat tightened. “Please.”

He grinned and leaned in until his lips were brushing my ear. “I don’t stop, Eden,” he said. “Not when I’ve found something I want.”

The words stole the air from my lungs.

“And you,” he added, “are most definitely what I want.” Jagger abruptly stepped away as if he hadn’t just shifted the axis of my entire morning . . . and possibly my entire life.

“I’ll see you soon, Eden.”

Jagger got into the car, and just before it pulled away, his gaze found mine one last time through the glass.

Then he was gone.

And I was left standing in the sunlight, knowing with awful clarity that Jagger hadn’t heard my warning at all.

Jagger

I leaned back in the rear seat, my phone pressed to my ear, while Zachary, my driver, steered us off the Strip and into traffic that crawled like it had nowhere better to be. “How did it go?” I asked Eli.

There was a long exhale on the other end. I could picture our PI leaning against a brick wall with his baseball cap hiding his face, pretending to scroll while he stalked Eden’s husband. “He showed up already trashed,” Eli said. “Eyes blown, hands shaking while he filled out the form, grinning at the receptionist like charm was a substitute for sobriety. Does your girl know he’s picked up a habit?”

I closed my eyes. No, I was positive she didn’t.

Thanks to the cameras I’d had installed in her apartment, I’d witnessed their conversation this morning. It had been easy to hear how nervous Ryan was for his interview. The little shit hadn’t had to do one in a while since he’d been depending on Eden to fund everything.

“They still gave him a shot,” Eli continued.

“And?” I asked lazily, already knowing what he was going to say.

“And he fell apart,” Eli said. “Started rambling. Lost his point mid-sentence and started sweating. Five minutes in, security was called, and he was walked out.”

Zachary flicked a glance at me in the rearview mirror, and I’m sure I looked like a maniac the way I was grinning.

“Any detours after?” I asked.

“Liquor store,” Eli said without hesitation. “ATM. Then back to the apartment. Passed out on the couch before noon. He got up an hour ago, though, and left.”

“What about women?” I asked. “Did you find anyone he’s been with?”

“Oddly enough, no,” Eli replied. “He goes to bars and clubs with the same group but always stays away from the women.”

That was annoying, but I guess even an idiot could understand there wasn’t an upgrade from Eden.

I leaned forward slightly. “Where is he now?”

There was a brief pause as Eli checked. “Corner of Maple and Fourth. He’s walking, and he just popped something else judging by the way he’s weaving down the sidewalk.”

I glanced at the street sign and saw we were actually not too far from there. I covered the receiver and looked at Zachary. “Maple and Fourth.” He nodded and made the turn down a side street without comment.

I brought the phone back to my ear. “Keep watching him. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I told him before hanging up.

I stared out the window, already mapping out possibilities.

Was I really about to do this?

I wasn’t a man who let opportunity rot. If something rare crossed my path, I took it. That rule had built everything I owned. It was why Cruz and I worked so well—we didn’t hesitate.

Ryan was clearly digging his own grave. I didn’t have to shove him. He was high before noon, bombing interviews, draining their funds . . . The man was doing a stellar job of ruining his life all on his own. A cautionary tale in real time.

The problem was that Eden was standing right beside him while he shoveled. The ultimatum I’d heard her give him the other day or not, I wasn’t sure she had it in her to actually walk. She was still acting like everything would magically change if she just worked harder, loved harder, and held everything together with both hands.

Eden was stubbornly, and painfully, loyal. Which I guess was just another reason I wanted her. Even if it was inconvenient at the moment.

That loyalty meant that I needed to be careful, though. I didn’t want her sanctifying the man and unable to love me just because he’d met a tragic end before she was done with him.

I’d have to give her one more chance to see him fail so completely she couldn’t rationalize it away. If she walked on her own, I wouldn’t have to do anything permanent.

If she didn’t . . . then I would.

My jaw tightened as I spotted Ryan stumbling down the sidewalk, one hand dragging along the brick wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Pull over,” I told Zachary, and he eased the car to the curb.

“You want backup?” he asked, and I scoffed because the idea of me needing backup for someone like Ryan was hilarious.

“I’m offended that you just said that,” I answered, and Zachary rolled his eyes like he thought I was being cocky as I reached down and opened the small compartment hidden beneath the center console. The safe was built into the frame of the car, reinforced and invisible unless you knew exactly where to look. Inside were a few items I kept for . . . situations. I grabbed the baggie of white powder and slipped it into my pocket.

I stepped out of the car, and the stench of rotting food and stale beer immediately assaulted my nostrils. There were trash bags slumped against a battered dumpster halfway down the block, one torn open and bleeding its contents onto the sidewalk. I started walking toward Ryan and nearly stepped on a rat that shot out from the curb.

Fucking hell.

Ryan didn’t notice me at first; he was too busy bracing himself against the graffitied wall, breathing hard as though he’d just done something strenuous.

“Long day?” I asked.

He flinched and snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot and wary. “What the fuck,” he muttered. “Where did you come from?”

His reaction reminded me of what had happened to Eden this morning, though, and I had to force myself to focus on the task.

I held up my hands innocently. “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

He squinted at me as if he could place me. “You a cop?”

The fact that I didn’t snort out loud at that question was a true testament to my self-control. “Definitely not,” I said.

Although, I do control all the city cops.

He was even more stupid than I’d thought, because that vague answer seemed to satisfy him. His shoulders loosened a fraction. “Okay.”

I leaned back against the brick across from him, trying to look unthreatening. “You look like you’re having one of those days.”

He barked out a laugh that held no humor. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Bad day at work?” I asked.

His shoulders slumped. “Bad day at everything,” he slurred. “Fucked up another interview. My girl’s gonna kill me. I promised her I’d get a job this week . . . and now it’s all fucked up. I just need a fucking break.”

I nodded like I was empathizing with him and reached into my pocket. “Breaks come in different forms.”

His eyes locked on the movement instantly and hunger sharpened his features, burning away any caution he’d been feeling. “What do you have?” he asked.

“Some really good stuff,” I said vaguely as I pulled out the small baggie and held it up so he could see the white powder inside.

He was like a starving dog spotting food as he stared at it.

“Want to try?” I asked innocently.

He hesitated, glancing down the street, then back at me. “I don’t have much.”

I named a price that was generous enough not to feel fake.

Ryan didn’t try to talk me down. Instead, he fumbled into his pocket and pulled out a folded bill, smoothing it nervously between his fingers. When he held it out, I held in a growl. I’d bet my Lambo that it was one of the bills I’d given Eden as a tip . . . and that Eden hadn’t given it to him.

Ryan deserved everything he had coming.

I took it without comment, folded it once, and tucked it into my jacket before handing him the bag.

It was all I could do not to grin as I watched him immediately start to fumble with it. He poured a line on the back of his hand with shaking fingers and snorted it quick and messy, like he was afraid I’d change my mind.

His head snapped back, his eyes rolling for a second before they refocused. A slow, stupid smile spread across his face as the high sank in. “Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s . . . that’s good.”

I smiled back. “Yes, it is.”

His legs suddenly buckled, and I caught him under the arms and propped him up against the wall.

“Easy,” I murmured.

I reached for the baggie and poured another line onto the back of his hand. He stared at it with glassy eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he slurred.

“Take it,” I said. “Take it and forget. Forget the interview. Forget your girl. Forget everything.”

He hesitated for one more second before he bent his head and snorted it deep. His body jerked once and then his eyes rolled back and he passed out, his head lolling to the side.

I didn’t have to hide my grin now.

Zachary pulled the car up to the curb, and I hooked one of Ryan’s arms over my shoulder and half dragged, half carried him to the back door. Zachary got out of the car and opened the back door, one hand steadying the frame so I could maneuver the limp body inside.

Ryan’s head flopped against the leather seat. His mouth hung open, and drool was already collecting at the corner.

Disgusting.

I was going to have to get this car detailed immediately.

Zachary slid back behind the wheel. “Apartment?”

“Yeah,” I said, getting in and shutting the door.

The drive was quiet. Ryan’s breathing had slowed to shallow, erratic rasps. I kept an eye on him, making sure he didn’t choke on his own tongue . . . at least not yet.

We pulled up to her building ten minutes later, and Zachary parked in the alley behind the building—out of sight from the street. I opened the back door and hauled Ryan out. He was completely limp now, and his head rolled against my shoulder. I slung him over one arm like a sack of laundry and carried him up the back stairwell. Zachary followed silently, watching for anyone to come by.

Unlocking Eden’s door with the key I’d copied, I carried Ryan inside, wincing at how crappy it was, just like I did every time I watched her on the cameras.

This was her life.

And he was rotting at the center of it.

I laid him on the couch exactly how I wanted him—sprawled, head tipped back, mouth open. I arranged the empty baggie on the coffee table beside him, open, and made sure residue was still clinging to the plastic. A few stray grains scattered across the wood like confetti.

Zachary watched from the doorway. “It looks good,” he commented.

“Thank you,” I said proudly as I straightened Ryan’s shirt so it looked like he’d collapsed after one last hit. Then I stepped back and surveyed the scene.

A man passed out on the couch after a bad day. Drugs on the table. No signs of struggle. No signs of anyone else.

Perfect.

“This is it,” I told Zachary quietly.

One last chance.

If Eden walked away after this, it would be her decision. If she didn’t . . .

My gaze dropped to Ryan’s slack face.

Then I would make the decision for both of them.

CHAPTER 11

EDEN

Isaw him the second I opened the door.

My bag slid off my shoulder and hit the floor as I stepped inside, a scream forming in my throat. “Ryan?” I gasped.

He was on the floor, curled awkwardly on his side, one arm tucked under him at a wrong angle, his whole body shaking hard enough that his teeth clicked together. There was vomit streaked across the carpet beside him, dark and sour smelling.

“Ryan,” I whispered, then louder, “Ryan!”

I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands hovering for half a second before I touched him, like my body didn’t trust what it was seeing. His skin was clammy and cold, and I watched as his eyes fluttered briefly.

“What happened?” I breathed.

He made a sound that might have been my name, and then his body jerked again, harder this time, and panic slammed into me. I fumbled for my phone with shaking fingers, nearly dropping it twice before the screen lit up.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My husband,” I said, the words tumbling over each other. “He’s—he’s shaking, he threw up, he won’t wake up. Please.”

“Ma’am, I need you to stay calm,” the operator said in a level, practiced voice. “Is he breathing?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, pressing my hand to his chest, feeling it rise and fall in uneven jerks. “Yes, but it’s all wrong.”

“Okay. I need you to look around the room,” the operator continued. “Do you see any medication bottles, alcohol, or substances nearby?”

My gaze swept the living room in a frantic blur, registering the couch, the lamp, the rumpled rug—until it caught on the coffee table, where a small plastic bag lay open in plain sight. For a second, my brain refused to process what I was seeing.

Ryan smoked weed. I knew that. I’d fought with him about it, tolerated it, and rolled my eyes about it. It had been stupid and immature and frustrating, but it hadn’t been . . . this.

This wasn’t a joint tucked behind his ear or something you laughed off with a promise to cut back.

This was white powder in a bag sitting in the middle of our living room.

My stomach dropped.

No. No, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do that.

My eyes flicked back to his shaking body, to the vomit on the carpet, to the way his jaw clenched and unclenched without rhythm.

“Ma’am?” the operator prompted gently.

My voice came out hoarse. “There’s—there’s something on the coffee table. A bag. I think it’s . . . I think it’s drugs.”

“What does it look like?”

“White powder,” I whispered.

He had stood in our bedroom this week in clean clothes and damp hair and told me he was getting a job and that he wasn’t going to lose me.

And he had done this instead.

“I didn’t know,” I said under my breath, more to myself than the operator. “I didn’t know he was doing anything like this.”

Ryan’s body jerked again, and I flinched.

“Stay with me,” the operator said. “I need you to tell me exactly where you are.”

I rattled off the address, my eyes burning as tears streamed down my face.

Sirens came faster than I expected, red and blue light slicing through the window, washing the apartment in colors that made everything look unreal. The door burst open moments later, and paramedics filled the space.

They moved me gently but firmly out of the way as they checked his vitals, rolled him onto his back, and fitted an oxygen mask over his face. One of them asked me questions while the other worked, their voices blending together in a blur.

“What did he take?”

“Does he have any medical conditions?”

“How long has he been like this?”

“I don’t know,” I kept saying, the words tasting like failure. “I don’t know.”

They lifted him onto a stretcher and clicked the straps into place . . . and suddenly he was being wheeled away from me, toward the door, toward a future I couldn’t see past the next five minutes.

“Can I come?” I asked, already following them.

“Yes,” one of them said. “Ride with us.”

I climbed inside, my hands clenched in my lap as the ambulance doors slammed shut with a final, terrifying thud, and the vehicle lurched forward, its sirens wailing into the night.

I stared at Ryan’s face, pale and slack beneath the mask . . . and I started sobbing. Pressing my hands together, I closed my eyes and prayed to anything that would listen.

But I didn’t just pray that he would live.

I prayed that if he did, I’d finally have the strength to leave him.

The doctor stood with a clipboard tucked against his chest, speaking carefully, like each word had been measured before it was allowed out. I caught fragments at first. Elevated heart rate. Respiratory distress. Admitted in time. And then the words that knocked the ground out from under me.

“We found multiple substances in his system,” he said, “including fentanyl.”

I shook my head before he even finished, a reflex more than a choice. “No. That’s not . . . He doesn’t— He wouldn’t⁠—”

“It doesn’t always come from intent,” the doctor said gently. “We’re seeing this more often. Laced product. People not knowing what they’re taking.”

I forced myself to look at the doctor’s face, and there it was. That softening around the eyes. That careful tone meant for people who had already been through too much.

Pity.

It slid over his expression like a filter he didn’t even realize he was using. And I knew it instantly, because I’d seen that look my entire life.

Teachers had worn it when I showed up without lunch money. Counselors had worn it when they asked if everything was okay at home. Strangers had worn it when they saw the bruises and pretended not to. Even cashiers sometimes, when my card declined and I tried to laugh it off.

It was the look that said you poor thing.

My chest burned, and I pressed my palm against it, as if I could hold the pain in—like if I kept enough pressure there, it wouldn’t spill out and swallow me whole. “Is he going to be okay?” I finally asked.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said. “We’re monitoring him closely. He was lucky.”

Lucky.

The word felt wrong . . . too light for what had almost happened.

I nodded because it was easier than trusting my voice, then turned away before the tears could fall in front of him. They came anyway, a torrent that blurred the hallway until all I could see was the beige floor and the toe of my shoe.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and forced myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. It was funny, I’d married Ryan thinking I’d never have to try those old therapist tricks again, and here I was . . . trying them almost every day.

When I finally pushed open the door to his room, the sound felt too loud.

Ryan lay in the hospital bed, unnaturally still, his skin almost translucent against the stark white sheets. Tubes and wires threaded from his body, looping and blinking in ways I couldn’t decipher, as if they were writing a language I didn’t know how to read. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm, and for one terrible second I just stood in the doorway, watching it, afraid that if I moved—if I breathed too loudly—it would falter and disappear.

As I watched, his eyes fluttered open, focusing slowly. When they landed on me, they filled immediately.

“Oh—” His voice broke. “Eden.”

I crossed the room and took his hand, trying not to grip it as hard as I wanted to. “Why?” I asked. The word tore out of me. “Why, Ryan?”

His mouth trembled, and he swallowed hard. “I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I swear. I didn’t know it was laced. I didn’t know.” Tears slid down the sides of his face and disappeared into his hair. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t.”

I nodded automatically like I believed him . . . but I was beginning to wonder if there was anything he wouldn’t do to me at this point.

“It was a bad day,” he rushed on, like if he kept talking he could get me to understand. “The interview went awful. I messed it up. I could tell right away. They were looking at me like I didn’t belong there.”

I kept nodding, my neck apparently having come loose until I’d turned into a bobblehead.

“I was so pissed at myself,” he said. “So angry. I just wanted my head to shut up for a minute. Just one minute. I didn’t think⁠—”

“Yes, I know,” I said quietly. “I know.”

He broke then, crying without restraint, his shoulders trembling beneath the hospital gown despite the wires tethering him to the machines. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I can’t lose you. I can’t. You’re all I have.”

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his chest while I held his hand between both of mine. “Just rest,” I whispered. “We’ll talk about everything when you get better.”

He started sobbing harder at that, clearly understanding exactly what everything meant.

“Please don’t leave me,” he whimpered. “Please help me.”

Before I could answer, the monitor beside him began to beep in insistent bursts. The steady rhythm fractured into something erratic. I straightened immediately, my heart slamming as the numbers on the screen spiked.

The door swung open, and a nurse hurried in, her expression shifting from routine to concern in a split second. “Okay, okay,” she said briskly, moving to the bedside. “Let’s calm this down.”

She checked the monitor, then his IV, her hands quick and practiced. “He needs to settle,” she murmured, glancing at me briefly before drawing something into a syringe. “His system’s been through a lot.”

Ryan’s grip tightened around my fingers as she injected the medication into the line. His breathing came in harsh pulls, then gradually began to even out as the drug worked its way through him.

“That’s it,” the nurse said softly. “Just let it do its job.”

The beeping slowed, returning to a steadier cadence. Ryan’s eyelids dipped, his sobs dissolving into small, exhausted breaths. His hand loosened in mine.

Within minutes, the fight drained out of him completely.

The nurse adjusted his blanket and gave me a look. “He needs rest. You need to try to keep things calm.”

Calm.

I nodded again because that seemed to be all I could do lately.

When she left, I stayed beside him, listening to the machine mark time for us both. His hand rested limp in mine.

And I understood clearly, perhaps for the first time, that keeping him alive and keeping myself alive . . . might not be the same thing.

Jagger

The report was thinner than I’d hoped.

I flipped through it anyway, leaning back in the chair in my penthouse office, one ankle hooked over my knee. Ryan’s name sat at the top of every page like an accusation. Vitals. Toxicology. Timelines. A neat, clinical summary of a man who’d survived.

I shut the folder and let it fall to the desk. “Well, I guess one part of my plan worked,” I muttered. “Don’t ever tell me I’m not a masterful plan maker.”

Cruz was staring at his phone with a frown on his face. “I can guarantee you that those words will never come out of my mouth,” he mused, “but also, you’re starting to sound like Gage.”

Now I was the one frowning. Gage was our resident murderer who took care of all the people we hated. He also drank iced milk, so I wasn’t appreciating the comparison at all. “That’s not flattering in the least bit, actually,” I griped.

“But it is accurate,” Cruz replied easily as he looked up at me. “He, too, hates when people don’t die.”

I exhaled through my nose. “Technically, he wasn’t supposed to die in my plan. I’m pretty sure I told you that already.”

Cruz’s smile widened just a fraction. “You did tell me that, and I’m pretty sure you secretly wanted the opposite.”

I leaned back farther in the chair and let my gaze drift up to the ceiling. “I haven’t been able to talk to her in days. She’s just sitting by his side. I had to dress up like a surgeon yesterday just so I could go to the hospital and see her. How long is this motherfucker going to take to get better?”

“You dressed up like a surgeon?” he asked with a snort.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Should I be offended that you’re not stalking me enough to know that already? I had on a blue pair of scrubs, and it was definitely my color.”

Cruz huffed. “I guess at least you weren’t dressed like a nurse,” he mused.

I barked out a laugh as I thought of Jace’s most recent Halloween costume, where he and his two best friends, Parker and Matty, had indeed been dressed like sexy nurses.

I could never unsee their hairy legs again.

“My apologies for being lax in my duties, Thatcher.” Cruz grinned. “But while you’ve been pining and planning petty murder . . . I’ve been handling the fallout from those weapons disappearing. Lucian was not happy.”

“Okay, so you don’t have to pay me back for that scotch,” I said with a wince. Lucian Rossi was head of the Cosa Nostra in New York, and he and his two brothers could be a pain to deal with. His psychotic brother, Raphael, had stabilized a little once they’d gotten their girl, Dahlia . . . but stable for him meant he’d only killed one person last week with the barbed-wire bat he kept with him.

The Rossi family was a fun time.

Not.

“It’s fine,” Cruz sighed. “I’m more worried about finding the weapons than the Rossis. Did you see Gage’s text?”

“Yes, I did,” I said irritatedly, thinking of the three men that had been found dead in an alleyway behind one of the bars we owned. The three men that Lawson had figured out were responsible for picking up the weapons from that shipment.

The Irish were mocking us.

“If they wanted our attention, they have it,” said Cruz. “I just can’t figure out what their end goal is. Little things to annoy us? What’s next?”

I scowled at my phone as I watched the video feed of Ryan’s hospital room that Lawson had hacked into for me. There Eden was, sitting dutifully by his side. I watched as she smiled at him and adjusted his blanket while he stared up at her like a lovestruck puppy.

I wanted to throw up. Or shoot someone.

Either of those seemed like an option right then.

“Did you hear anything I just said?” Cruz asked.

“No,” I said distractedly. “But since you don’t have to pay for that scotch anymore, it’s probably okay.”

“You’re literally never going to let that go, are you?” Cruz said exasperatedly.

“Probably not,” I replied. “I stole that from a pope. It’s not something I can just replace.”

“You stole it from a pope? Which one? And when?” he asked, sounding confused.

“Does it matter?” I said, feeling like my eyes were about to start bleeding as I watched Ryan reach up and stroke Eden’s cheek. “It was very difficult to get in and out of the papal office, and I didn’t even get to taste it first.”

“I’m going to start watching you even closer,” said Cruz as he came up and stared down at my phone.

“Mm-hmm,” I answered, not very worried about it.

“So how long are you going to wait until you kill him?”

“That, my friend, is the million-dollar question,” I murmured.

“You’ll figure it out,” Cruz said, patting me on the shoulder.

I watched as Ryan said something that made her laugh again, and I resisted the urge to throw my phone. I was having to do that a lot nowadays . . . resist my urges.

And I was ready to be done.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” Cruz reminded me, although he didn’t sound too serious about that little piece of advice.

I didn’t answer.

On the screen, her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to remind me she wasn’t as blind as she pretended to be.

“Million dollars?” Cruz prompted.

I finally looked up from the phone and smiled.

And somewhere in my head, a clock started ticking.

CHAPTER 12

JAGGER

The bell over the coffee shop door rang when I stepped inside, bright and obnoxiously cheerful as always, and it immediately put me in a worse mood.

I hadn’t slept at all. I’d spent the entire night handling a situation at one of the smaller casinos off Fremont, a little operation that had decided skimming from the high-limit tables was worth the risk. By the time I’d finished making my point and ensuring the problem wouldn’t repeat itself, dawn had been flirting with the skyline, and my patience was already threadbare.

This stop was supposed to be automatic and the bright spot of my day. I’d come here because she’d finally left his hospital room, and she was supposed to be here for a shift.

Where the fuck was she?

Her annoying coworker was behind the counter, the one who didn’t actually work because she made Eden do it all. She was already giving me simpering, eager looks like she actually thought it was a possibility I’d fuck her.

Eden was nowhere to be seen.

I hadn’t thought to look at my camera setup on the way over here on account of my zombielike mental capacity at the moment, but I approached the counter anyway to make sure she wasn’t just in the back. “Where’s Eden?” I asked, unable to force any charm or pleasantries into my voice.

The woman gaped at me like a confused fish. “Uh . . . she’s not here.”

I sighed. “Yes, I can see that. But she was supposed to be,” I said, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“How did you—” she began before shaking her head. “Um, well, she called in for an emergency this week and . . .”

“And what?” I snapped, sensing there was more to it.

She hesitated, glancing toward the back like she hoped someone else might step in and save her. “She got fired.”

I stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Excuse me?” I said, my voice edged despite the exhaustion dragging at me. I might have been tired, but I was still certain my message to Shelby about Eden had been unmistakably clear. Shelby owed a lot of money to us thanks to her nasty little gambling habit, and the only reason she still owned this fucking coffee bar was because she was married to Lawson’s second cousin.

“She missed a few days,” the woman said defensively, clearly thinking I was holding her responsible for the decision. “Our boss said it was too many.”

I nodded slowly, not because I accepted it, but because reacting here would have been messy, and messes were for later. “Thanks,” I said as I turned and started for the door. I reached up and grabbed the bell on my way out, ripping it off the wall. The annoying employee was gasping as the door closed behind me, but I didn’t look back.

Outside, the morning sun was already climbing, and I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, my hands flexing at my sides in irritation. I pulled out my phone.

Gage answered on the second ring. “What happened?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“Why do you assume something happened?” I asked.

“Because you’re calling me when I just got to work, honey.”

Ah, Gage was with someone. While also being our fixer, Gage was also an FBI agent. It was very helpful to have someone on the inside when you were running a mafia organization.

“Well, little Snuffleupagus,” I said sweetly, “I just need a tiny favor handled tonight. I’m throwing a barbecue for the neighbors, and I need you to grab a few supplies on your way home from work.”

He didn’t respond for a minute, and I grinned despite my mood because one of Cruz’s and my favorite games was trying to get Gage to laugh at work. The FBI was far too stuffy as an organization. He needed an outlet after dealing with them all day.

There was a faint sound on the other end of the line—like someone clearing their throat a little too forcefully.

“Well, sweetheart,” Gage finally replied, his voice overly polite in a way that meant he was absolutely fighting the urge to crack a chuckle, “just text me the address, and I’ll make sure I pick that up for you.”

There was a suspicious hitch at the end of the sentence, and I pictured him physically swallowing a laugh.

“Thanks, Snookie-poo,” I said, unable to come up with anything more creative as I fired off a text with the coffee shop’s address. Gage knew exactly what barbecue meant, and Shelby would be waking up to a burned-down coffee shop very soon.

It actually was a win-win situation for the organization because I knew Shelby had an insurance policy on the place. Gage would make sure it didn’t look like arson, and then she’d be using her insurance policy to start paying off her debts.

I loved when plans came together.

Zachary had the door open before I reached the curb, and I nodded at him gratefully.

I slid into the back seat, loosening my tie as the door shut with a muted thud that sealed me off from the sidewalk noise. The leather was cool, the air inside already adjusted to my preferred temperature. I reminded myself to give Zachary another raise.

He eased back into traffic, and I pulled out my phone to search for Eden. The feed was just about to load when my phone vibrated in my hand.

“What,” I answered, already annoyed.

“I know something you don’t know,” Cruz said on the other end.

I rolled my eyes. “I saw Brad Luther’s hairy nuts last night, and I still managed to get the job done. You’re not allowed to be smug about anything right now.”

Silence.

Apparently I’d stunned another man into speechlessness, because it took Cruz a full second to recover.

“I don’t know that I want to tell you this knowing that. How have you not bleached your eyes?” he finally asked.

“Cruz,” I growled, rethinking our friendship rule that we weren’t allowed to kill each other.

“He’s out of the hospital.”

I went still. “What? How did I not know this?”

“Probably because you haven’t checked your phone in six hours on account of Luther’s nuts,” he mused.

I clenched my jaw. “When did he get out?”

“About an hour ago.” He answered my next question before I could ask it. “And she was by his side.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. I guess that explained why she’d missed her shift this morning.

I hung up on him before he could say anything else, and the second the line went dead, I brought up the security feed. Her apartment came into view, and I gritted my teeth as I stared at the sight of Ryan lounging in their bed. Upright and alert and seemingly as happy as a clam.

He had a takeout container open beside him, and he was humming to himself as he shoveled cheap Chinese into his mouth.

I fucking hated him.

I switched camera feeds to the living room, and something eased in my chest when I saw Eden sitting on the couch. Of course, that thing in my chest tightened right back up when I realized she was crying as she looked at her phone.

Zooming in until her screen came into focus, I watched as she scrolled through job listings and application forms. Just another reason why Shelby’s coffeehouse was about to meet a fiery end.

Eden wiped her face and kept up her searching.

Wasn’t it typical of her relationship that Ryan was once again comfortable and carefree while she was breaking herself apart trying to keep things afloat?

Zachary glanced at me in the rearview mirror and then very wisely looked back at the road.

I switched back to Ryan and watched him take a hit of a vape, and I thought of a thousand different ways to kill him.

I texted Cruz because I didn’t have any other outlets at the moment.

Me: I just wanted you to know that I never used to feel this murdery before I met you. This is definitely your fault.

Cruz: Wow. Blaming me for helping you with your personal growth. Rude.

Cruz: Also, I forgive you for hanging up on me.

Me: I was fine. Well-adjusted. Only mildly homicidal.

Cruz: You stabbed a plant with a letter opener our second week of knowing each other.

Me: It was a plant…

Cruz: It was a sign of violence. And obviously it was important that I gave that violence structure.

Me: I’m sitting in the car watching her apply for jobs while her husband smokes in their bed.

Cruz: Ah. So we’re back in that spiral.

Me: I hate him.

Cruz: You hate a lot of people.

Me: No. This is different. This is…creative hate.

Cruz: I think Gage said that just last night.

Me: Once again I’m going to instruct you to not compare me to someone who drinks his milk with ice.

Me: You can drink it with a corn dog and be okay.

Me: But you can’t drink it with ice.

Cruz: Okay, see, I feel like there were underlying murdery thoughts somewhere in there.

Me: …

Cruz: Lincoln Daniels asked you for another favor, didn’t he?

Me: Why would you assume that?

Cruz: Because you just did that stupid … thing that he and his friends are all about.

Me: You sound jealous. But I can’t tell if it’s because Golden Boy texted me or because I texted him back.

Cruz: …

Cruz: Jagger.

Me: What?

Cruz: When are you going to kill the guy? It would be nice if you could help with this Irish thing instead of hyperfixating and then spiraling on a daily basis.

Me: I am helping. Case in point: Luther’s balls last night.

Cruz: I’m actually going to check that your story really happened because I find it far more likely you were sitting on your couch crocheting.

Me: …

Cruz: Okay, I’ll admit I am jealous that you were talking to Lincoln Daniels.

Me: I knew that already, but we’re going to have to circle back to that because I’m more interested in why you would ever assume I would be crocheting at any point.

There was a pause, and I waited incredulously for his answer.

Cruz: Isn’t that what people in love do?

I blinked at my screen for a minute, waiting for the punch line.

Weirdly, it never came.

Me: You know what . . .you might have to verify my ball story, but I’m going to have to verify that you’ve actually ever been with a woman. But I would recommend not crocheting if it ever happens.

Cruz: You know what? You’re obnoxious. Just for that, I’m going to drink the rest of that scotch.

I sighed. Of course he was at my place. Because why wouldn’t he be, even though he had a very nice one of his own?

Me: Please be gone by the time I get home. I need to sleep before I murder someone.

Cruz: …

Cruz: No promises.

I locked the phone and leaned back in the seat, knowing I was about to fall asleep.

“It’s definitely his fault,” I murmured to Zachary.

I had fallen asleep before he even answered.

***

Eden

The numbers on my phone stopped making sense somewhere around the third time I added them up.

Rent. Utilities. The hospital bill estimate they’d already emailed me. Groceries, if we barely ate. Everything stacked on top of everything else until it all blurred together into one long, suffocating list. I rubbed my thumb over the edge of the screen and set the phone down on the coffee table, pressing my palms to my eyes like that might keep the panic from spilling out.

Behind me, the bedroom door creaked open, and Ryan stepped into the living room, his hair damp from the shower. He looked like a different man from the one in the hospital.

And he’d looked that way for the last two weeks since we’d left it.

Which was why I hadn’t been able to tell him yet . . . that I was done.

Ryan leaned down and kissed me, and I accidentally kissed him back out of habit. His kiss had just tried to turn deeper when the fire alarm suddenly screamed, ripping through the apartment with no warning.

I gasped and pulled back at the same moment Ryan did, both of us covering our ears as the shrill noise echoed off the walls.

“What the hell,” he shouted.

The sprinklers exploded to life overhead, and cold water poured down in chaotic bursts, soaking the couch, the rug, my hair, my clothes. I shrieked and jumped back, slipping slightly on the slick floor as Ryan cursed and spun in a slow, panicked circle.

“What is happening?” he yelled.

The alarm screeched relentlessly, my nerves fraying with every second. And then, just as abruptly as it had started, it all stopped. The sprinklers cut off mid-spray, and the alarm died with a final, unhappy chirp.

I blinked at the sudden silence and then looked around, stunned.

“What the fuck,” Ryan said, breathing hard.

My phone buzzed on the table, its screen lighting up with a notification from the building management about a “false alarm” and “system reset.”

Ryan laughed weakly, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “Guess the universe has a sense of humor.”

I didn’t laugh . . . because what had just happened felt like more than a coincidence. Almost the second he kissed me, the sprinklers had exploded to life overhead.

Water still dripped from the ceiling, soaking the furniture, streaking the walls, and turning everything into a soggy, wretched mess. Arms wrapped tight around my middle, I stared at the damage, unable to shake the feeling that it meant something.

It felt like a sign.

Now all that remained was finding the right moment to follow it.

CHAPTER 13

JAGGER

Carl hadn’t asked questions. He never did. When I told him Eden needed a shift tonight—a late one—he just nodded and adjusted the schedule. That’s why he ran our largest casino. He understood that curiosity wasn’t part of his job description.

“She’s good,” I’d said lightly. “Put her in the high roller room.”

“Yes, sir.”

I grinned as I hung up. I was solving two problems. She’d get great tips tonight, and Ryan would be alone.

Which was perfect for what I had planned.

After watching him kiss her and having to set off the fire alarm to break them apart, I was done with any more waiting.

My phone buzzed against the desk, and I answered without looking at it. “If you’re calling to talk about crocheting again, I’m not interested.”

“Have you seen the news?” Cruz spat.

His tone made me immediately straighten, and I pulled the browser up on my tablet. “What am I looking for?”

“Front page,” he said. “Local. Then national.”

The headline hit before I finished scrolling: “Former informant comes forward with details on Las Vegas crime syndicate.”

I went still.

The subheading was worse.

“Man claims decades-long organized crime presence tied to casinos, real estate, and political influence.”

“Well,” I murmured, “that’s inconvenient.”

Cruz exhaled on the other end. “You’ll want to keep reading.”

I didn’t like the way he’d said that.

The article loaded fully, and there it was. A grainy photo of a man we hadn’t seen in years. He was older now, and that receding hairline wasn’t doing him any favors, but regardless, it was easy to recognize Gerald Knox.

I leaned back slowly in my chair.

“Well,” I said lightly, because evidently that was how I sounded when something potentially catastrophic landed in my lap, “Gerald looks terrible. Prison was not kind to him.”

“He’s not in prison anymore,” Cruz said.

No. Of course he wasn’t.

I skimmed the article faster.

Gerald claimed he’d worked for decades as an informant for a “loosely structured but deeply embedded organization” that controlled most of the Las Vegas casino industry. Alleged bribery. Extortion. Coercion of city officials. Manipulation of licensing boards.

My jaw tightened. Gerald had worked as an informant—for Cruz’s father—and we’d gotten rid of him the second the man had died and Cruz had taken over. Gerald had always given us the creeps. He probably wasn’t happy about our role in putting him in prison, but he wasn’t supposed to ever get out.

I snorted at the line in the article about dynasties. I bet Cruz had liked that line.

“I’m not seeing any names in here yet,” I murmured.

“Not yet,” Cruz said. “They’re dancing around it, though. ‘Senior operators.’ ‘Primary financiers.’ ‘Untouchable leadership.’ They’re being coy.”

That didn’t provide any comfort, because they could have our names and just be saving them.

I continued reading. There were references to properties and licensing deals. Even a real estate acquisition from three years ago that had been intentionally complicated so no one would know it was us.

Gerald wouldn’t have known about any of these things . . . which meant someone had given him that information.

I stood up, irritated, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Traffic moved below in neat, orderly streams, and I found it almost amusing how none of them realized how close they lived to things that could destroy them.

“The timing is interesting,” I said. “I’d prefer to believe the Irish are stirring this up rather than that we’ve got a rat in our midst.”

“But how did they find out about those deals?” Cruz growled.

“How, indeed,” I murmured.

Rolling my shoulders back to try to help the sudden tension sitting in them, I took a deep breath. “It’s going to be fine. There will be regulators sniffing around . . . some agents. But we’re prepared for all that. Gage will get all the information we need if the FBI are going to become a problem or if they’re getting too close to the truth.”

“We are prepared,” Cruz agreed. We both sounded more unsure of that than I would have liked.

A beat passed.

“Are you still planning your evening?”

“Yes,” I said. “If I waited for my life to calm down before making decisions, I’d never make any.”

Cruz hesitated. “You’re sure about this? I don’t want any more heat on us right now.”

“Please,” I said. “The man is a footnote at best. No one writes headlines about men like him. And I’m fairly certain she’s already grieving a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore, so she’s not even going to care that much. Everything will be fine.”

He was silent for a few seconds, and I knew he wanted to argue some more.

“Keep me updated,” Cruz said finally.

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you out.”

The call ended.

I looked back down at my phone, at the messages already queued, and the pieces already moving. Eden would get the call soon. Ryan would get the invite not long after.

I glanced back out the window again to where our empire continued to glitter like it always did.

Somewhere out there, a man was about to walk toward yet another terrible decision.

And I was about to make sure he didn’t survive this one.

It was time.

Eden was tucked safely inside the casino, working an extra shift that had appeared on her schedule that morning like a small mercy. And Ryan . . . was on his way to a poker game one of his friends had called him about. Organized by me, of course.

I had to give him credit, he’d said no three times before he’d finally said yes. His willpower was truly awe-inspiring.

If I were a better man, maybe I would’ve paused.

Maybe I would’ve watched him drift exactly where I’d nudged him and felt something resembling pity. Maybe I would’ve considered how easy it was to steer someone who’d never learned how to steer himself.

A better man might have seen tragedy; he might have seen addiction and weakness and the small, pathetic hope that clings to second chances.

But I’ve never confused myself with that kind of man.

What I felt wasn’t pity.

It was rage.

Rage that he’d been allowed into her life at all. Rage that she’d worked herself raw trying to save someone who didn’t even have the decency to save himself. Rage that he’d taken something soft and hopeful and real and ground it down to fear and exhaustion and apologies she should never have had to make.

He didn’t deserve pity.

He’d had Eden.

And he’d fucked it all up.

I’d made sure the address he was given for the game was on the outskirts of town in a warehouse district where Lawson could easily hack the cameras.

Zachary drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the console, his eyes flicking between the quiet street ahead and the mirrors.

“There he is,” I murmured, nodding toward the stretch of sidewalk ahead where Ryan was walking with that misplaced swagger of a man who thought tonight might finally rewrite the narrative of his life. It was truly shocking the amount of money the Syndicate made from people just like him who believed one more game would change everything wrong with their lives.

At least he was able to walk in a straight line tonight. That was an improvement from the last time I’d been watching him from a car.

Zachary slowed to a crawl, his posture alert as he waited for instructions.

I continued to watch Ryan through the windshield, and my mind drifted backward, to the first time I’d crossed a line and realized it hadn’t felt like crossing anything at all.

I hadn’t grown up damaged. That’s what people always assume. They like their monsters forged in fire with absent parents and violence and chaos . . . that wasn’t me.

I’d come from a family where my parents loved us loudly and showed up when it mattered. My brother and I were close in the way that makes teachers nod approvingly and neighbors say things like, Those boys are going places.

But when I sat in the Sphinx secret society house my senior year of college after I’d gotten the news that the police had finally identified the man who’d hit Carlie . . . only to learn he was escaping any justice because of some bullshit issue with how the evidence had been handled, an idea had formed, and it had festered and festered until I couldn’t let it go. If the system couldn’t close the gap, someone else could.

The idea didn’t feel evil. It felt corrective.

I’d thrown up after I’d killed him, alone in a bathroom with flickering lights and a cracked mirror.

But that had been the only time I’d had any reaction at all.

Carlie hadn’t walked since the accident, and in fact, she’d basically disappeared from the world. Soon after she’d been paralyzed, Carlie had broken up with me, telling me she didn’t want to hold me back. Then she’d dropped out of school, stopped answering calls, and holed up in her parents’ house . . . never really coming out again.

Carlie had let me come see her once after that.

Her curtains were drawn in the middle of the afternoon. The air in the house felt stale, like nothing new was allowed to enter. She’d lain on the bed and stared at me with tears rolling down her cheeks and told me she never wanted to see me again.

Her life after that had been reduced to square footage and doctor visits and polite pity.

I liked to believe that knowing the man who’d done that to her was dead gave her at least a sliver of peace. But I guess I’d never be sure.

Blinking, I came back to the present where Ryan had just stepped off the curb and was crossing the street. I rolled down my window to shoot him, and the night air rushed in, the dry heat still hot enough to scorch your skin.

Ryan’s head suddenly snapped toward the SUV, and his eyes widened in recognition as he saw me in the window. “You,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’re the guy . . . You almost killed me. Your shit was tainted.”

Ah, accountability. How refreshing. I mean, sure, he was the one who bought it from me with the money he’d taken from his wife . . . while he was already high, but details, right?

The color drained from his face suddenly, and he looked terrified as he turned and began running awkwardly away.

I watched him go, surprised he’d remembered me at all. Most people in his state that day wouldn’t have. Credit where it was due, though, the man had a talent for clinging to the things that would ruin his life.

“Zachary,” I said quietly.

Zachary didn’t hesitate. He eased off the brake and accelerated forward. The impact was soft—almost gentle—considering. Ryan’s body folded over the hood with a dull thud, his limbs flailing as he slid off the side and hit the pavement hard.

We rolled to a stop, and then I stepped out of the SUV and walked over slowly with my hands in my pockets and my posture relaxed.

Ryan lay curled on his side, one leg bent at a wrong angle. He was still conscious—barely. His eyes were dazed, and blood was already trickling from his mouth.

“Why?” he asked in a garbled voice as I stood over him, unmoved. I cut off any other words he had planned by planting my boot on his neck and pushing down.

His breath stuttered, then broke, a wet, strangled sound tearing out of him as his windpipe collapsed under the force. I felt it through the sole of my shoe, the give of something vital collapsing inward. His hands spasmed once as his fingers clawed uselessly at my ankle, then slid away as his strength failed.

I kept the pressure there until his body went still, and when I crouched to press my gloved fingers against his neck, there was nothing left beating beneath my touch.

To be doubly certain, I stepped back and nodded toward Zachary. He immediately eased the SUV forward, and I watched as the tires rolled over what remained of Ryan. His body disappeared beneath the Escalade EV’s almost ten-thousand-pound frame and reemerged on the other side . . . definitely dead.

The police would call it a hit-and-run. And I guess they’d be mostly right.

I reached into my jacket and withdrew the small packet of cocaine I’d grabbed. His hand rested near his hip and the palm was turned upward as if he’d been reaching for something in his final seconds. I lifted it carefully, then placed the packet against his skin and curled his fingers around it one at a time until it looked like he’d been holding it all along.

Satisfied with the story that would be told, I turned and walked toward the SUV without sparing Ryan another glance. Whatever he’d been five minutes ago no longer required my attention. Problems deserve focus. Corpses don’t.

Zachary had already stepped out and opened the rear door for me. I climbed in smoothly, adjusting my cuffs as the door shut with a solid, insulated thud that sealed the night out again.

“Paradise?” Zachary asked calmly as if he’d just picked me up from dinner.

“Yes.”

The SUV pulled away, and I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent a single message to Cruz.

Me: Done

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then returned.

Cruz: About time.

I didn’t bother responding.

Eden would get a call at some point tonight during her shift, and words like tragic and accident and we’re so sorry for your loss would be thrown around. And I would be there to support her, of course, concerned and infuriated on her behalf.

I’d be ready to hold her when the shock hit, to remind her she didn’t have to face any of this alone . . . and to slip seamlessly into the space Ryan had been occupying so poorly.

The first phase of the plan had been removal.

The next was . . .comfort.

I loved when a good plan came together.

CHAPTER 14

EDEN

The casino never slept, but it did have moods.

Tonight it felt like a million voices had stacked on top of one another until they blurred into a single, grating hum that scraped along my nerves. I moved on autopilot, stacking glasses, wiping a counter already clean, smiling when someone spoke to me even though I barely heard what they said.

Ryan kept circling in my head instead as I tried to plot out when exactly I could end things and it not kill him.

I tried to picture his face when I finally said it. I’m done.

Would he laugh first? Like it was a joke I’d told badly? Or would he start sobbing like he had before his overdose? That loud, messy breakdown that had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. He had a talent for unraveling when things didn’t go his way—pacing, knocking something over, dragging his hands down his face like the universe had singled him out for punishment.

Getting drunk or high . . .

I tried to imagine telling him he needed to move out.

Where would he even go?

Back to his mom in our old trailer park back East? To one of his friends who were all just as unstable as he was? Would he sleep on someone’s couch and blame me for it? Tell everyone I’d “abandoned” him?

Guilt slid under my skin like a splinter. If I ended us, he wouldn’t simply lose me.

He would lose everything.

And I couldn’t afford two places to help him until he finally got a job. I could barely afford the one we had now. The thought of signing another lease, paying two deposits, covering utilities in two different spaces . . . it made me want to throw up.

But how much longer could I wait?

“Eden.”

I looked up. Carl stood a few feet away, his usual bluster gone, and his face drawn and careful. He looked . . . somber, and that alone sent a cold thread straight through my chest.

“There’s a call for you,” he said quietly. “My office phone.”

“A call?” I echoed stupidly. No one ever called me at work. I quickly pulled out my cell phone to see if I’d missed something from Ryan, but he hadn’t called.

Carl awkwardly patted my back. “You should take it.”

My feet felt heavy as I followed him, like the carpet had turned to mud beneath my shoes. I tried to think who it could be. The hospital, maybe, or a bill collector who’d decided the casino line might finally get my attention.

I pushed the door open and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Is this Eden Thorne?” a man’s voice said.

“Yes,” I responded, my voice suddenly reedy and thin. “This is she.”

“This is Officer Ramirez with Metro Police. I’m sorry to bother you at work, ma’am, but I need to speak with you regarding your husband, Ryan.”

Sound receded, like I’d been shoved underwater without warning.

“My husband?” I repeated, because my brain had stalled somewhere between his name and the way the officer said it.

There was a long pause, and my hands started shaking.

“Mrs. Thorne,” he said, “I’m very sorry to inform you that your husband was involved in an incident earlier this evening.”

I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles whitening, my pulse loud in my ears. “What kind of incident?”

“He was struck by a vehicle,” the officer said gently. “It appears to have been a hit-and-run. Paramedics pronounced him deceased at the scene.”

The sentence came apart in midair, like glass thrown against tile—shards skidding in every direction, too sharp to touch.

Struck. Vehicle. Hit-and-run. Deceased.

I waited for the part where he corrected himself. Where he said there had been a mistake, a misidentification, or a wallet found on the wrong body. I waited for my phone to ring with Ryan’s name flashing across the screen, and for him to be laughing and breathlessly saying Can you believe this? They thought it was me.

But none of that happened.

“I—I don’t understand,” I whispered. “He was just— He was home this afternoon. He’s only been out of the hospital for two weeks. He wasn’t supposed to leave the house.”

“I understand this is a shock,” the officer said, and I could hear the practiced sympathy in his tone, the cadence of someone who had walked strangers through devastation before. “We’ll need you to come down to the station when you’re able. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

My fingers tightened around the receiver. “Discuss?”

There was another pause, and then the sound of paper shifting.

“When your husband was found,” he said carefully, “there were narcotics in his possession. Given his recent medical history, we have to consider whether that may have played a role in what happened tonight. We’re still waiting on toxicology, but it’s part of the investigation.”

Medical history.

Two weeks ago, I’d been sitting beside a hospital bed, staring at monitors that beeped in an awful, steady rhythm. Two weeks ago, Ryan had nearly died. I’d told myself it was a wake-up call and that he’d been scared straight. I’d told myself that leaving the hospital meant starting over.

“He just got out,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “He almost died.”

“I’m aware of that, ma’am,” the officer said gently. “That’s why we need to ask some questions.”

“I’m at work,” I said faintly, as if that mattered. As if the world should pause because I was mid-shift and unprepared for my life to end.

“That’s okay,” he replied. “Take the time you need. Is there someone with you right now?”

I looked at the closed door and my empty reflection in the darkened glass of the office window. “Yes,” I lied.

“All right,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Thorne.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

The line went dead.

I guided the receiver into place carefully, as though I were disarming something that could go off if I moved too fast. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at nothing, my chest aching with a pressure that refused to become a sound.

Ryan was dead.

The boy I’d grown up with. The teenager who’d promised to get us out. The man and husband I’d begged and fought and hoped for until hope itself felt like a bad habit.

Gone.

My legs finally gave out, and I sank into the chair behind the desk, one hand pressed flat against my mouth to keep the sob from escaping. Outside the office, the casino roared on, chips clacking and laughter spilling while the music swelled as though nothing had changed.

But everything had.

I don’t remember sliding out of the chair.

One second I was sitting there, my mind replaying the officer’s words like a skipping recording. The next, my knees gave out, and I was on the floor, my back hitting the side of the desk hard enough to jar the breath from my lungs.

And then I finally cried. My pain tore out of me, a sob that didn’t care about dignity or anything else. I folded in on myself and wrapped my arms tight around my stomach like I could hold everything inside if I just squeezed hard enough.

Ryan was dead.

The words felt unreal, a sentence pulled from someone else’s life. My life had always been messy and loud and hard, but even at its worst, there was still part of me that hoped someday it would change.

This . . . this was final.

I was only faintly aware of the door opening and footsteps rushing toward me. I barely felt it when strong arms slid around me, pulling me up and into a chest that was solid and warm and very real.

I finally came back to myself, a broken gasp ripping out of me as I tried to pull back, but the hold only tightened, anchoring me before I could spiral away. “It’s okay,” a familiar voice murmured. “I’ve got you.”

I looked up, tears blurring everything until the world smeared into light and shadow, and . . . it was Jagger. I stared at him as his dark eyes searched my face, his grip firm but careful as one of his hands cradled the back of my head and his fingers threaded gently into my hair.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head in a helpless, broken motion, and a sob tore free again. “I—I got a call,” I choked. “The police. They said⁠—”

My throat closed. The words were refusing to come.

Jagger rested his forehead against my temple, and it kind of felt like his presence was a shield around me.

“My husband,” I finally forced out in a hoarse, wrecked whisper. “They said he was hit by a car and that there might have been drugs involved. They said he’s dead.”

His arms tightened, and he pulled me closer until my face was pressed into his chest as if that were exactly where I belonged.

“Oh, Eden,” he said softly.

He didn’t pretend to understand or offer platitudes or empty reassurances. He didn’t tell me everything would be okay.

He just held me.

“I’m so sorry,” Jagger murmured. “I’m so sorry you’re hurting.”

“I was going to leave him,” I gasped into his shirt, the confession spilling out without permission. “I was going to tell him soon.”

My guilt tangled with my shock and my grief, and with something else I couldn’t name. My body shook harder, my knees threatening to give out entirely.

Jagger didn’t flinch. He widened his stance, absorbing my weight as I sagged into him. One hand moved slowly along my spine, steady in its pace, as if he could smooth the chaos under my skin by sheer repetition. The other cradled the back of my head, continuing to press my face firmly against his chest, protecting me from the world.

I cried until my voice turned ragged, until each breath scraped like it was dragging over gravel. My ribs ached from the force of it. My fingers went numb as they gripped his jacket, yet I couldn’t make them release. It felt like something inside me was tearing loose in strips, leaving nothing but a shaking shell behind.

Through all of it, he didn’t shift. He absorbed every tremor, every broken inhale, standing firm and steady, his heartbeat a slow, unchanging rhythm against my cheek while mine came apart.

***

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and cold metal, a scent that felt designed to strip everything human out of a moment like this. My shoes echoed too loudly against the tile as the attendant stopped in front of a plain door and reached for the handle.

I felt the attendant’s eyes on us, judging me. Her gaze dipped to our fingers laced together, then back to my face, like she was rearranging the story in her head.

Widow. And not alone.

Heat crept up my neck, but I didn’t loosen my grip.

I knew Jagger was a stranger and that something was wrong that I hadn’t argued or questioned it or even thought to call anyone else when he’d told me he would come with me. And I’m sure tomorrow I would ask myself why I’d shown up at the morgue with another man’s hand in mine, but right now . . . I was having trouble letting go of it.

“You don’t have to stay,” I finally whispered, not meaning anything I was saying. “You should go. You shouldn’t have to see this.”

Jagger’s eyes met mine, the deep brown shot through with silver at the centers, like metal catching firelight. The contrast made his stare feel almost unreal, warm and cold at once. When he looked at me, the noise around us seemed to recede, the world compressing until there was only the comforting, exhilarating weight of his attention.

“Is there anyone else you want with you?” he asked as he softly stroked my cheek with the hand I wasn’t holding.

There should have been an obvious answer to his question. A name. A person. Someone who fit. But there was nothing. It was just another reminder of how Ryan and I had built a life in Vegas that wasn’t a life at all.

And now I was truly alone in it.

I swallowed, wincing at the burn in my throat. “No,” I murmured, and suddenly I was sobbing again. I pressed my hand to my mouth like that might keep me together, but it didn’t work.

“Oh, baby,” he said in an aching voice, as though he was experiencing all my pain and sadness right along with me. He let go of my hand and slid his arm around my shoulders, holding me upright with effortless ease. “I’m here,” he said quietly. “You’re not doing this alone.”

I let out a broken breath that might have been a laugh if I weren’t crying so hard. “I don’t even know you.”

His mouth tipped into the faintest smile. “You know my name, remember . . . which means we’re friends.”

The attendant cleared her throat softly, clearly uncomfortable, and then opened the door. The room beyond was stark and unforgiving with its white walls and stainless steel. There were several tables lined up in a row, but only one with a sheet drawn neatly over a body.

I froze, and my legs refused to move as I began to panic. This was it. The point of no return. Once I saw him like this, I couldn’t unsee it.

My stomach dropped, and my limbs went distant, suddenly no longer feeling like my own. Was I about to pass out? The air in here felt thinner, like it wasn’t actually oxygen at all. Jagger’s arm tightened around my shoulders just enough to remind me he was there. “You don’t have to look,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do,” I told him in a choked voice. Step by step, I forced myself forward. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it.

The attendant gripped the edge of the sheet and folded it back in one smooth, practiced motion, and Ryan’s face emerged, all his color drained to a waxy gray, his lips tinged faintly blue. One side of his jaw was swollen and mottled with dark bruising that crawled down his neck. A jagged scrape cut across his forehead, stitched but still angry and red against the pallor. His hair was stiff with dried blood near the temple.

My breath snagged as I stared at him in shock.

More of him came into view as the sheet lowered to his chest. Purple-black shadows bloomed beneath the thin hospital gown. His collarbone jutted at a wrong angle. There were abrasions along his shoulder, and road rash all over him.

Ryan’s mouth hung slightly open, like whatever he’d been about to say had been stolen mid-breath . . . his last words never making it out. His lashes lay still against skin that looked dusted in ash, no rise, no flutter—nothing left to argue with or forgive.

This morning he’d been standing in our living room. Now he looked carved out from the inside, as if someone had scooped away everything that made him Ryan and left only the outline behind.

The color was gone. The restless energy. The constant commentary. Even the tension I’d carried toward him felt misplaced here, with nowhere to land.

I remembered him on that playground swing years ago, pushing off with his sneakers, grinning at me with the easy certainty that I was already his future. He’d kissed me with the reckless confidence only young men have and promised forever as though it was something he could manufacture.

That boy didn’t exist on this table.

This—this was a shell arranged under fluorescent lights. A body zipped open and stitched closed. A story cut short without punctuation.

Whatever spark had once animated him was gone.

And I was staring at the aftermath.

The sob that ripped through me felt feral. Loud. Uncontained.

It wasn’t graceful grief. It was ugly and shaking and full of too many things at once—shock and guilt and memory. It clawed up my throat and left me trembling in its wake.

Jagger pulled me into his chest, and I clung to him. “It’s going to be all right, Eden. I promise, baby.” The conviction in his voice undid me even more.

Because it just reminded me that Ryan had promised we’d be all right once, too.

And here I was, standing in a room that smelled like chemicals and endings, wrapped in another man’s arms while my husband lay cold on a metal table behind me.

I felt split open.

Part of me was grieving the boy on the playground swing, the reckless promises, the version of us that had once felt simple.

Part of me was staring at the table behind us, knowing that whatever we’d become lately—resentment, frustration, exhaustion—it would never be resolved now.

No closure. No final conversation. Just an abrupt, brutal full stop.

I would never get to say the words I’d rehearsed in my head.

And now they would live inside me forever.

CHAPTER 15

EDEN

Iwoke up staring at the ceiling.

My eyes were open, but my body felt disconnected, like it hadn’t gotten the message that morning had arrived. The ceiling fan above me turned in slow, uneven circles, its blades edged with thick lines of dust that never quite disappeared no matter how often I wiped them down. A thin crack split the plaster near the vent, spidering outward as though it had been there forever.

It felt obscene that the fan still hummed. That the dust still clung. That the crack hadn’t widened overnight just to match the fracture inside my chest.

Everything up there looked exactly the same.

And nothing in my life was.

Ryan was dead.

The thought drifted through me without impact, dull and unreal.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It took a moment for the sound to register as something I was supposed to take care of. I lay there listening, waiting to see if it would stop, but it didn’t. The knock came again, firmer this time and insistent.

I dragged myself upright and shuffled across the apartment, every dragging step feeling like I’d spent last night drinking instead of crying my eyes out.

When I opened the door, I stopped short, my mouth dropping at the sight of Jagger standing in the hallway. He looked wildly out of place against the peeling paint and flickering light, dressed in dark slacks and a crisp shirt that probably cost more than my rent. His blond hair was neat, his expression steady, and in his hands were several grocery bags, the handles cutting into his fingers like he’d been holding them for a while.

I blinked at him. “Why are you here?”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“We’re friends,” he said, as if it were obvious.

“We’ve talked a handful of times,” I shot back.

“I think that qualifies as enough, Eden. I drove you home. Sat with you. Went with you to identify your . . . husband,” he answered with a strange look on his face as he said the last word. “That feels like more than strangers.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come . . . because maybe he was right. I stepped aside instead, not so much deciding to let him in as lacking the energy to stop him.

Jagger took that as an invitation and walked in, setting the grocery bags on the counter. The kitchen light flicked on, casting a dull yellow glow over cracked laminate and the tiny table shoved against the wall. He started unloading items from the bags—fresh berries, thick-cut sourdough, farm eggs, imported cheese, and cold-pressed juice. None of it looked as if it came from the discount aisle I usually haunted.

He reached into one of the bags and pulled out a sealed container. Lifting the lid, he revealed a breakfast strata and rosemary potatoes that looked straight out of a magazine.

I blinked in shock. “You cooked that?”

He snorted. “I have many skills, sweetheart, but cooking is not one of them. Luckily for both of us, other people have those skills.” He glanced at me, one corner of his mouth tipping upward. “But while I can’t cook, I am exceptionally skilled at warming things up.”

The microwave beeped as he punched in the time, like reheating a gourmet breakfast in my cramped kitchen, beneath cabinets with peeling paint, was perfectly ordinary.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. It seemed to be my mantra with him lately.

“I know,” he replied, not looking at me this time.

Steam rose when he opened the container again, the scent of butter and herbs filling the room, rich and mouthwatering and completely at odds with everything else in my life.

“I don’t think I can eat,” I whispered as I sank into the chair at the small table, my body finally giving in to the weight of everything. My hands shook slightly as I folded them in my lap.

He set a plate in front of me anyway. “Good thing this doesn’t require much effort on your part,” he said lightly. “Just small bites. I’ve got the heavy lifting covered.”

That almost made me smile.

He set a glass of water next to my plate. “Eat,” he ordered.

I stared at the delicious-smelling food, then up at him. “Why are you here?” I asked again. For a second, something unreadable crossed his face, something deeper and more intent.

“Because you shouldn’t be alone today,” he finally said. And I didn’t have the strength to argue with that . . . because it felt true.

I picked at the edge of the plate, my appetite still a distant concept. But suddenly it wasn’t the food knotting my stomach.

It was the way he moved around my kitchen, like he intended to stay. The way he was looking at me. The way my body had gone to him yesterday without hesitation.

Like it recognized something before my brain had time to object.

That scared me. My husband had been in a morgue less than twenty-four hours ago. Wasn’t grief supposed to look a certain way? Weren’t widows supposed to wilt and withdraw . . . not lean into another man’s warmth like it was oxygen?

If I didn’t draw a line now, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to later.

“I need to be clear about something,” I said, putting my fork down.

Jagger leaned back against the counter, his arms folded loosely as he watched me with an unreadable focus.

“We can only be friends,” I said, forcing the words out before I could lose my nerve. “I just lost my husband. I’m not . . . I’m not capable of anything else.”

For a second, the room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the window unit, already overworking in the heat. Then he smiled. It was a knowing tilt of his mouth as one eyebrow arched and he winked. “I know.”

The simplicity of it threw me more than if he’d argued.

“You don’t sound disappointed,” I said.

“Why would I?” he replied easily. “Friends are a good place to start.”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten, as if he already knew how this would end and was content to let time do the work.

I looked back down at my plate, even more aware of him standing there . . . of how safe the apartment felt with him in it despite how little sense that made.

Friends, I reminded myself.

Just friends.

I could do that . . . right?

I managed a few bites before the weight of everything slammed back into me all at once, and my stomach clenched.

“Oh my gosh,” I said suddenly, pushing the plate away as I panicked. “I have a shift. I’m supposed to be at work in—” I glanced at the clock and sucked in a breath. “I’m already late.”

Jagger gathered the plate and glass before I could protest. “You don’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘I don’t’?” I asked, dread pooling in my chest. “I can’t just not show up. I need the hours.”

He rinsed the plate calmly as though this wasn’t a crisis at all. “You have the week off.”

I stared at his back. “That’s not funny.”

Jagger glanced over his shoulder, his expression mild. “I’m not joking.”

“I can’t afford that,” I said, the words coming out tight. “I can barely afford to breathe right now.”

He set the dish in the sink and turned to face me fully. “You’re getting bereavement pay.”

I squinted at him. “I’m getting what?”

“Bereavement pay,” he repeated easily, as if it were obvious. “It’s a policy.”

“I’ve worked there for years,” I said slowly, studying him. “No one’s ever mentioned that.”

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Some policies aren’t advertised.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How would you even know that?”

Another flicker of amusement moved across his face.

“My company owns the casino,” he said simply.

I gaped at him. “What?”

He leaned back against the counter, entirely at ease after rearranging my understanding of the world. “My company owns the casino, Eden. So it would make sense that I’m familiar with the employee handbook. I do like to be hands-on with my companies. It’s what makes me the best.”

“You own it?” I repeated, heat rising in my chest. “You’ve been coming in there like—like you’re just another customer.”

His mouth twitched. “I am a customer.”

“Seriously . . . I’m not joking right now.”

He straightened slightly, maddeningly calm as ever. “You didn’t need to know. It wasn’t relevant.”

“It feels relevant,” I shot back. “Especially as I’m thinking back on everything. You’re the reason Carl let me go early that night and paid me for it!”

He held my gaze. “What kind of boss would I be if I ignored my employee’s plight? You were entitled to the pay then, and you’re entitled to the pay now. You can stop freaking out.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again when I realized I didn’t have the energy to untangle all this information. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t relieved to hear about this policy. Having to go to work the day after I’d seen my husband’s dead body felt impossible. Standing behind the bar while people laughed and gambled and flirted, pretending I wasn’t replaying the sight of Ryan under fluorescent lights . . . it would have broken whatever was left of me.

The thought of a few days—paid days—felt like someone loosening a vise around my ribs.

“It’s a good policy,” I finally said quietly. “Thank you.”

He grinned. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I rolled my eyes faintly, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. The tightness in my chest had eased just enough for me to breathe without it hurting.

“You’re very smug. I hope someone’s told you that before,” I muttered.

His mouth twitched. “I never claimed otherwise.”

That almost made me smile again.

Jagger glanced down at his phone and groaned. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I need to handle something for work.” He didn’t try to disguise the irritation in his voice. “But I’ll come back later. I want to check on you.”

“Jagger—” I started.

He closed the distance before I could figure out what I was going to say. His hand came up, and his thumb brushed lightly along my cheekbone. “I’ll be back,” he said firmly.

Before I could argue, he pulled me into him and wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug.

I stiffened for half a second. “I⁠—”

“Friends touch,” he said against my hair, his tone lighter again. “It’s perfectly legal.”

I huffed a shaky breath despite myself.

His hand slid up my back, and something in me gave way. I melted into him, my forehead resting against his shoulder as I breathed in the faint scent of his cologne.

And just as soon as I did, I felt a rush of guilt.

This was too easy.

When Jagger pulled back, he gave me that faint, knowing smile again. “I’ll see you later,” he said before striding toward the door. It closed behind him a moment later, leaving the apartment quiet again, and I stood there staring at the spot where he’d been, my chest tight and . . . missing him.

Jagger

Breaking into an office at two in the morning was not how I’d pictured my day ending. But when your city is most likely under investigation because of a news article . . . you have to plan your crimes accordingly.

Paulie Bellino’s casino sat on land we intended to own, so I was simply ensuring that when it changed hands, the paper trail would make it look innocent . . . not like theft.

The hallway smelled like industrial cleaner and stale cigarettes soaked deep into carpet that had seen too many bad bets. The air hummed faintly with recycled ventilation and the distant clatter of machines on the gaming floor below.

It was easy to see why people were flocking to our casinos and not this guy’s if this was how he kept his management floor. I was going to have to soak myself in a vat of sanitizer after this.

I crouched by the office door, sliding a card along the seam of the doorframe.

“Remind me again why I’m the one handling this?” I muttered into the earpiece.

“Because,” Cruz replied calmly, “Maddox is persuading a supplier who forgot who he answers to, Gage had a Bureau thing, Lawson is scrubbing digital footprints, and I’m managing fallout on three fronts.”

The lock clicked open, and I pushed the door in slowly. “So I got the sticky carpet?”

“Leadership,” Cruz said evenly, “means sometimes you do the messy things yourself.”

Snorting quietly, I stepped inside. “Interesting philosophy. Because if the leader is supposed to be doing the messy things, I feel like you should be the one elbow-deep in whatever nastiness is waiting in here.”

I could hear his grin through the phone. “I delegate strategically sometimes,” he admitted.

“There it is,” I scoffed as I moved farther into the dark office, letting my eyes adjust.

The room was bigger than it needed to be for someone of Paulie’s stature, compensatory square footage obviously masquerading as power. Every surface screamed excess. Heavy lacquered wood paneling climbed the walls, but it was trimmed in thick bands of brassy gold that caught even the faintest light and reflected it back in greasy glints. The carpet was some deep burgundy monstrosity patterned with swirling filigree, like a rejected casino floor sample.

Framed photos of Paulie grinning beside athletes he’d clearly paid to stand there covered one wall, the gold frames thick enough to double as blunt weapons. And that crystal decanter set over there . . . it had definitely been handled with unwashed hands.

The smell hit a few steps in, and I stopped dead.

“What,” I said slowly, “the fuck.” The air was actively offensive. Like old food had gotten drunk and died in here. I took another step, and my boot stuck to something. I looked down and saw I was standing in a puddle of crap that had once been liquid and had been left to rot.

“What’s going on?” Cruz said distractedly.

I nudged the sticky patch with my toe. It made a wet, peeling sound that I never wanted to hear again. “I am standing in what I can only describe as a biohazard.”

Cruz practically giggled, and it echoed in my ear like betrayal.

“I hate you,” I said flatly, stepping around the desk. “I want that noted in our official friendship record.”

“Do we have one of those?” he asked.

“You’re the stalker in this relationship, so I’m not sure why you’re asking me. You’re the one who has one.”

He snorted but didn’t deny it . . . and as usual I had concerns. I just didn’t have time to deal with those concerns as usual.

“Describe the room,” he demanded, still laughing.

“I’m not⁠—”

“Describe it.”

I sighed and covered my nose with my sleeve so I didn’t pass out. “There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the desk. No plate. Just . . . bread and something that could be that bologna they sell in yellow plastic at the grocery store, but it also could be decaying flesh. I’m not sure. There’s a smell that suggests mayonnaise was once here, but a rabid rat most likely died in it.”

“How do you know it was a rabid rat?” Cruz asked.

“I can sense it,” I mused as I continued to look around.

“I’d also like to note the three half-full takeout containers next to the sandwich, all different cuisines, none of which should ever meet.”

“Diversity,” commented Cruz.

“Decay,” I corrected. “And—” I froze.

On the corner of the desk sat a small pile of condoms, some still glistening with lube and semen, their edges curled and crusted where the latex had dried. A few had burst open at the tips, the thin film sagging like used skin, the insides smeared and leaking onto the wood in sticky little puddles that had already started to congeal.

They weren’t even hidden—just left there like cigarette butts in an ashtray, proof that someone had fucked on this desk and hadn’t bothered to clean up afterward.

“Oh, for the love of⁠—”

“What?” Cruz asked eagerly.

“He fucks in here.”

“Why exactly are you surprised by that?”

“Because I can’t imagine a woman willingly approaching his dick,” I answered. “And by the used condoms he left on his desk . . . it’s happening frequently!”

Cruz made a choking sound. “Used condoms?”

“There’s also lube and a sock in here,” I said. “I don’t know why the sock is here. Scratch that . . . I don’t want to know why it’s here. But everything is sticky, and I hate it.”

“You could’ve been a lawyer,” Cruz offered.

“I still could be,” I shot back. “My opening statement would simply be, ‘Your Honor, Exhibit A is the crusted condom graveyard. I rest my case.’”

“I’m sure that would work well,” he answered helpfully.

I moved around the room, careful where I stepped, cataloging the damage like an investigator who’d reached the end of times. The couch against the wall looked as if it had seen things. The leather was cracked and stained, and I was 90 percent sure something was growing in the crease.

“Remind me again that we really want this casino so we can tear it down, expand one of ours, and make billions,” I muttered. “Oh, and keep it away from the Irish.”

“You’re not allowed to lose your nerve, Thatcher,” Cruz said. “You’ve already made it past the used condoms. You’re practically in the homestretch.”

“I still have to touch something,” I griped.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the folder Lawson had prepared. It was filled with photos and bank statements . . . and contracts that would look very ugly in the hands of the right authorities. All I had to do was plant them where they’d be found, and Gage would make sure the police and the Bureau handled the rest.

Simple, in theory. In practice, every surface was contaminated, so I had to weigh what I wanted to touch. I scanned the room and landed on a decorative end table shoved against the wall that was ornate, unnecessary, and, notably, coated in a visible layer of dust.

Paulie clearly hadn’t sullied that one lately.

I exhaled, braced myself, and yanked the drawer open. It was just as bad. Inside were more wrappers, a bottle of pills that definitely wasn’t prescribed to him, and a gun I knew for a fact wasn’t registered.

“Well,” I said, “that’s convenient.”

“Everything you need?” Cruz asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “This man is a stack of charges waiting to happen.”

I slipped the documents into a file folder already in the drawer, rearranged the contents just enough to look natural, and shut it quickly before I caught something.

As I straightened, my earpiece crackled. “You done yet?” Cruz asked.

I walked toward the door and paused, taking one last look at the crime scene masquerading as an office. “I just need to wipe my memory now,” I muttered.

Cruz snorted in my ear. “You say that like this is worse than you murdering someone less than twenty-four hours ago. You’re really selling your performance.”

I softly pulled the door shut behind me and started down the hall. “Please. That was the easy part. This,” I added, thinking of sticky floors and lube brands, “is psychological warfare.”

He laughed again. “You know,” he said as his voice turned pointed, “the breakfast this morning? The groceries? You tucking her into a chair like she might tip over if you didn’t supervise her protein intake? It was very . . . cute.”

“What breakfast?” I said flatly, already shaking my head because this man was such a fucking stalker.

Cruz chuckled. “Oh, don’t do that. You brought her breakfast. In her shitty apartment. It was so domestic of you.”

I scoffed dramatically. “I thought you were managing fallout on three fronts? How did you have time to spy on me?”

“You’re one of the three fronts, obviously,” he said. “One of us has to make sure you don’t get arrested.”

“You know that almost would have been sweet enough to make it into the official friendship record,” I muttered, starting down the hall again, “if you didn’t usually track me like a misbehaving Roomba.”

“I’m just saying,” Cruz continued, unfazed, “murder and breakfast potatoes don’t usually go well together.”

“People need food when they’re in shock,” I said unrepentantly.

“Right,” he replied. “So when are you moving her in? Is that before or after you turn into a domestic version of Mary Poppins?”

“Obviously after,” I told him. “You know, I’m proud that you know me so well. You can put that in the friendship record.”

He was silent for a minute as I slowed at the bottom of the stairs, one hand pushing open the exit door.

“I was actually joking,” Cruz finally said in an amusedly high-pitched voice for a mafia boss.

I took a deep breath of the fresh air, trying to rid my lungs of the toxic mold I’d most likely been inhaling the entire time I was in there. “Why is that a joke?” I asked, taking off my gloves and sliding them into my pocket. “Are you thinking there’s a socially acceptable timeline for seducing a widow, or do you think I can just feel it out?”

He hummed. “Ordinarily, I’d say there are rules.”

“‘Ordinarily,’” I echoed.

“But,” Cruz continued, sounding more amused and less shocked now, “since there was murder involved, I’m pretty sure the rules don’t actually apply here.”

I considered that as I nodded at where Zachary was waiting at the curb with a car. “I think that’s a good point,” I said. “We’ve already strayed off-menu.”

I yanked open the passenger door of the SUV and slid in. “Her place,” I said tiredly. “Now, please.” Adrenaline was buzzing under my skin like bad whiskey. I needed her.

Zachary didn’t blink or ask any questions. I guess he was probably relieved I wasn’t having him run anyone over tonight. The engine growled to life, and we melted into the neon-streaked veins of the Strip.

“You’re going over there right now? It’s three a.m.,” Cruz commented, and I jumped. He’d been quiet for so long I’d forgotten he was there.

“Of course I’m going over there,” I said.

“Is Eden going to be okay with that?” he asked. “Isn’t she asleep?”

I grinned to myself. “She’s not going to know.”

There was a pause. Then⁠—

“Wow . . .”

“What?” I asked innocently.

“The fact that you think Jace and I are over-the-top stalkers is kind of funny right now.”

“Jace inserted a tracker in his girlfriend while she was sleeping,” I shot back. “You once hacked into a woman’s phone because she didn’t text you back fast enough.”

“She was being weird.”

“She was at work.”

There was a pause, then Cruz said thoughtfully, “Okay, when you say it out loud like that, it sounds less healthy.”

“Shocking revelation,” I muttered as we stopped about a block from Eden’s apartment. “We should probably all unpack that in therapy. Together. In a group.”

“Just try not to traumatize the girl,” Cruz said as I thanked Zachary and got out.

“That’s the plan,” I answered before I pulled out the earpiece and threw it in the car.

That was the plan.

CHAPTER 16

JAGGER

Zachary had confirmed earlier that chicken noodle soup had been delivered at six for Eden to eat for dinner . . . along with a precise dose of tasteless sedative stirred in. It was perfectly harmless, of course, but it had been a high enough dose to push her into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I pulled up the camera feed on my phone while I walked the last block to her building. The live view loaded in seconds. She was curled on her side, knees drawn close to her chest, and her dark hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. Her breathing moved in slow, even waves, steady and untroubled, and her lips were parted just slightly. There was no tension in her shoulders, no restless shifting beneath the blanket . . . just peaceful, drugged oblivion.

I watched for another thirty seconds, my thumb hovering over the screen as I made sure her breathing stayed even and nothing happened that would force me to adjust my plan. The cameras had shown her finishing her soup earlier, but you never knew.

She stayed completely still, though. Perfect.

I locked the phone and slipped it into my pocket.

The back stairwell smelled like mold and old cigarettes as I took the steps two at a time. When I got to her door, I slid my key into the lock and turned it slowly until the deadbolt gave with a soft click. Pushing the door open just enough to slip inside, I closed it behind me without letting it latch too loudly.

The apartment was dark except for the faint blue glow from the oven clock in the kitchen. 3:16 a.m. The living room smelled more like her and less like him, which was just how I liked it. Another day or two, and any trace of him, at least scent-wise, would be gone.

Her apartment was so cramped that it only took me a few steps to get to her bedroom doorway, and when I got there, I took a second to savor the sight.

I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it.

Something tightened beneath my ribs when I saw her. I was still getting used to the way I orbited her even when I wasn’t with her. Whatever I was experiencing didn’t feel like fear . . . or nerves.

It felt like pressure, something almost violent in its insistence. Like my body had decided that proximity to her was oxygen, and distance was suffocation.

I’d killed for less than this feeling.

I stepped closer, watching the gentle rhythm of her breathing. The way her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks. The way her fingers curled into the sheet as if even in sleep she was holding on to something.

I wondered, briefly, if this was what people meant when they talked about love.

Not the soft, polite version. Not the kind that fit inside greeting cards.

But the feral kind.

The kind that makes you feel like your lungs might collapse if you go too long without seeing someone’s face. The kind that convinces you your hands were built for the sole purpose of touching them. The kind that rearranges your moral compass until right and wrong become secondary to mine.

If I couldn’t see her, I felt restless.

If I couldn’t touch her, something inside me scraped and clawed.

If she disappeared, I wasn’t entirely sure that I wouldn’t burn the world down looking for her.

My chest tightened even more.

I crossed the room in three strides, dropping to my knees beside the bed. My hand hovered over her face, and I couldn’t stop myself from brushing my fingers against her cheek. She sighed and turned toward my touch like a flower seeking sun.

My fingers trailed down—along her jaw, the column of her throat, over the frantic little pulse that jumped under my thumb. And then lower, to the swell of her breast, where her nipple pebbled through her cotton shirt at the barest graze.

My cock throbbed painfully against my zipper, and I had to try to talk it down. She deserved to be awake for the first orgasm I gave her. I wanted to see her begging and desperate as she fell apart for me.

But the second my lips brushed her temple, I nearly moaned at the feel of it. Eden let out a soft sigh, like she knew me even in the dark, even in sleep . . . and it hit me like a drug. My whole body locked up, and my heart was slamming so loudly I was sure it would wake her.

I should’ve forced my feet to move. I should’ve left the room and gone back down those stairs.

Instead, I stayed exactly where I was, bent over her sleeping form, one hand braced on the mattress beside her head, and I leaned in again. This time I brushed my lips against the corner of her eye, then the curve of her cheek, then the shell of her ear. Each kiss was light, barely there, but every one sent fire through my veins. Her skin was so soft. I wanted to bite it . . . mark it. I wanted to wake her up with my teeth on her skin and my cock already inside her.

I obviously couldn’t do that, though.

Kicking off my boots, I slid the sheet back carefully and eased onto the mattress behind her. The bed dipped dramatically under my weight, the springs protesting with a long, drawn-out groan.

I shifted slightly, trying to distribute my weight, which only made the whole thing creak in a new and inventive way. For a split second, I considered the fact that I owned properties with mattresses worth more than this entire apartment, and here I was, lying on something that felt as though it had been assembled from tin cans. The springs pressed into my back, answering my thoughts.

How did she sleep on this fucking thing?

Oh, right. She was drugged. There was no way she’d be sleeping well otherwise.

Eden shifted, and I froze as she curled away from me. I stared at her for a second, but she was still fast asleep. Sliding my arm around her waist, I pulled her flush against my chest. Her ass nestled perfectly against my hips, and my dick pressed insistently against the thin fabric of her sleep shorts.

The sedative was doing its job perfectly.

Mine.

The word branded itself into my brain as I buried my face in her hair. I tightened my hold and flattened my palm over her stomach. She sighed again, soft and needy, and her hand found mine in her sleep and threaded our fingers together.

Fucking hell.

I pressed my lips to her nape, tasting her pulse as my other hand slid up under her tank and cupped her breast. She arched against me, a tiny whimper slipping out as my thumb brushed over the tight peak.

Okay . . . down boy.

Stopping myself, I decided I would just hold her for a few hours and then leave before dawn. A little treat after dealing with Paulie’s office.

But the exhaustion hit like a freight train, and it all crashed down at once. My eyelids grew heavy. My breathing synced with hers. The city noise outside faded to a dull roar.

I told myself I’d rest for just a minute.

Just long enough to feel her heartbeat against my palm. Just long enough to pretend this was normal. That I wasn’t a monster who’d killed her husband and drugged her to crawl into her bed like I belonged.

My eyes drifted shut.

And for the first time in years, I let go.

CHAPTER 17

JAGGER

Eden was bent over the kitchen island, her skirt shoved up around her waist, her panties ripped off and stuffed in her mouth to muffle the screams I was going to force out of her. Her wrists were pinned behind her back with one of my hands, the other fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so her throat arched and her tits scraped the cold marble every time she moved. I didn’t ease in. I slammed home in one vicious stroke, burying myself balls-deep, the thick stretch of me forcing a choked scream from her throat that echoed off the cabinets.

She was dripping. Slick ran down her thighs, coated my cock . . . made every thrust wet and loud. I watched myself disappear inside her, watched the way her pussy stretched around me, greedy and tight, sucking me back in like she was made for this. For me. For being fucked like a dirty girl on the counter where we made coffee every morning.

Eden tried to say something, and I took pity on her, pulling the panties out of her mouth so I could revel in her screams.

“Harder,” she begged in a wrecked voice as she pushed back against me like she needed more. “Please. Fuck. Don’t stop.”

I fucked her like I hated her, like I loved her, like I’d die if I ever stopped.

Gripping her hair tighter, I yanked her head back until her spine bowed, and sank my teeth into the side of her neck while I drove into her so deep my balls slapped wet against her clit. She cried out, and her pussy fluttered around me, clenching hard.

I slid my hand between her legs and found her swollen clit, rubbing it in fast, rough circles that made her thighs shake and her screams even louder. Then I pushed two fingers inside her alongside my cock, stretching her impossibly wider, filling her until she was gasping, sobbing, begging for mercy and more at the same time.

“You feel that?” I growled as I scraped my teeth against her ear. “That’s me owning every fucking inch of you. This pussy’s mine now. This ass is next. This mouth⁠—”

I pulled out suddenly, spun her around, and shoved her onto her back on the island so that she was spread wide for me. Hooking her legs over my shoulders, I sank back in—deeper this time, hitting that spot that made her eyes roll back. Her nails raked down my chest, leaving red lines I’d wear like badges. I fucked her mercilessly with deep, punishing strokes that made her breasts bounce. Her nipples were dark and peaked, swaying in perfect rhythm with every snap of my hips.

“Come inside me,” she begged desperately. “Please—give it to me.”

And I did.

Burying myself to the hilt, I came so hard my vision whited out as I pulsed deep inside her, flooding her until it leaked out around my cock, dripping down her ass and onto the marble beneath us. She clenched around me as her own orgasm ripped through her.

I pulled out and buried my face in her dripping pussy. My tongue plunged in, and I moaned as I licked her clean, sucking my own cum from her swollen folds. I swirled my tongue around her clit until she was thrashing and bucking against my mouth, her hands fisting my hair like she was trying to pull me deeper.

“Jagger . . . it’s too much,” she sobbed as her thighs trembled around my head.

I woke to heat and friction and the most painful erection I’d ever had in my life.

My hips were moving in slow, instinctive rolls before my brain caught up. Something soft and warm pressed against my cock, and a low moan vibrated against my chest as I felt hips buck back to meet me, chasing the same rhythm.

My eyes snapped open.

Eden. Holy fuck. I was still in her fucking bed.

Her tank top had ridden up in the night, leaving her back bare against my chest and her breasts exposed. My hand was curled possessively around one soft, heavy breast as she ground back against me.

I froze . . . but she didn’t.

A soft moan slipped from her throat, and her hips rocked back again, harder this time. My dick was throbbing in response and leaking steadily, a wet spot spreading across the front of my pants.

Fuuuuuck. I was going to die.

If she woke up like this, with me here, everything I’d worked for would be gone. She’d never want anything to do with me again. I’d have to kidnap her and lock her in a room for the rest of our lives just to see her.

I slid my arm out from beneath her inch by inch, easing her weight off my chest with a restraint that felt obscene considering what I’d just been dreaming. My body immediately wanted to haul her back.

Thank fuck my brain knew better.

Eden made a small sound as she rolled onto her stomach, and I slid off the mattress.

I couldn’t risk trying to get out of her room right now, so I flattened myself to the floor and slid under the bed, biting back a curse at the smell of her ancient carpet. The smell wasn’t because she didn’t clean it. The place was just way too fucking old. This carpet needed to be replaced before I’d been born.

She shifted, and the mattress squeaked like it was going to fall in. The springs dug unforgivingly into my back, and my skin crawled at the realization of how much of my face was touching the floor. I was way too big to be under this bed.

Breathing this quietly took a crap-load of effort, and it was actually incredibly painful to have my dick trying to dig a hole into the carpet.

Eden jolted upright, and I heard her sudden intake of breath. The mattress protested as she practically launched herself off it.

I shifted immediately, angling my hips so I wasn’t grinding into threadbare fibers like a hormonal idiot, and turned my head toward the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the floor, and she hurried for her pathetic excuse of a bathroom. A second later I heard the bathroom faucet twist on full blast.

Water splashed, and I inched forward just enough to see Eden’s reflection in the sliver of mirror through the open doorway. She was braced over the sink, shoulders tense, and breathing hard. She splashed water onto her face over and over again . . . trying to cool herself off.

I grinned. Yeah. I knew exactly why she was hot and bothered.

Eden pressed both palms to the counter and stared at herself in the mirror with a sexy frown as she shook her head like she was furious with her reflection. Leaning over, she turned on the shower and then reached for the hem of her tank top, pulling it up and over her head in one slow, almost angry motion.

Her breasts spilled free, and I felt dizzy and a little like I was dying because I knew now how they felt in my hands, and I wanted to grab them again . . . immediately. Her breasts swayed slightly as she shook her hair out, dark strands clinging to her shoulders and brushing her nipples.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sleep shorts and panties together and pushed them down her hips. They slid over the swell of her ass, down her thighs, pooling at her ankles . . . and I was fucking drooling.

The dip of her waist flared into hips that begged to be gripped. Her ass was round and firm, the kind of ass that would look obscene with my hands on it. Between her thighs, her pussy was bare, lips swollen and glistening even from this angle, and I wanted to cry because I’d never wanted to taste something so bad.

Eden kicked her bottoms aside without looking and then stepped into her shower.

Usually I would have thought that her cheap white shower curtain was something that only belonged in the Bates Motel . . . but watching her outline behind it had suddenly turned it into my new favorite bathroom item. I might provide one in every room in our casinos and label it a luxury item after this experience.

My dick throbbed painfully against my zipper, literally begging me for help. And you know what, I’d already gone this fucking far . . . why not one more step?

Watching her shadowed silhouette behind the curtain, I unzipped my pants, gasping in relief as my cock sprang free. I wrapped my fist around the base and squeezed, choking back the groan clawing up my throat. One slow stroke from root to tip, precum slicking the way, and I had to bite my lip so hard that I tasted blood.

She moaned—soft and breathy, the sound carrying over the rush of water—and my hand sped up without permission. I watched her silhouette move and grinned as her head tipped back and one of her hands braced on the wall.

I was pretty sure I’d died and gone to hell when she began working her other hand between her thighs.

Her hips rocked forward, and her ass pressed against the curtain, the thin plastic stretching and clinging like it wanted to be her skin.

I stroked faster, twisting at the head the way I imagined her mouth would. My balls drew up tight, pressure building so fast I could barely breathe. Every moan she let out, every roll of her hips, every time her silhouette arched, I felt it in my cock like a direct line.

She was close.

I could tell by the way her movements turned frantic, hips bucking against her hand, head falling back so her throat arched in shadow. Her moans grew louder and more desperate . . . little gasps and whimpers that made my vision blur.

I was right there with her.

I stroked faster, my thumb swiping over my piercing with every upstroke, precum dripping down my knuckles. My breathing turned ragged, matching hers, my hips jerking into my fist like I was fucking her through the curtain.

She cried out as her silhouette jerked with the force of it, her body convulsing, thighs trembling, her hand pressed between her legs while the water pounded relentlessly over her.

I came with her . . . hot pulses spilling over my fist, splattering the threadbare carpet beneath the bed, my vision whiting out at the edges as I watched her ride out her climax.

Eden finally sagged against the wall, her chest rising and falling hard as the water continued pouring over her.

Wow.

What a great first date. If I hadn’t already been obsessed with her, this would have done it for me.

I wiped my hand on the floor, liking the idea of my cum staining the carpet underneath where she slept, and then I tucked myself back in. I made the mistake of looking back at the shower, and my dick twitched again.

Focus.

The last thing I needed was to still be under her bed when she came walking back in here.

Eden started humming, and the sound was just what I needed. I began sliding forward, using the hum and the spray of the shower to mask the faint whisper of fabric against the carpet. My shoulder brushed the underside of the mattress, and I paused, counting her breaths, and listening for any shift in tone.

She kept humming.

I eased the rest of the way out from under the bed and rose in one fluid motion, staying low as I crossed the room. Her voice grew a little stronger, almost cheerful, and I moved through the doorway into the living room, keeping close to the wall as I heard the soft clink of something being set down in the shower.

The water shut off, and I hurried and slipped to the front door, turned the knob slowly, and eased it open just enough to slide through. I pulled the door closed behind me with careful precision and turned the key, locking it quietly before removing it from the cylinder.

The click sounded louder out here, and I waited, wondering if I was about to hear footsteps racing toward the door. But there was nothing.

I leaned back against the wall beside her apartment, my head tipping against the cheap paint, and exhaled slowly. My pulse was still riding high, adrenaline and something darker braided tight beneath my skin. While I was still recovering from the most erotic encounter of my life, I pulled my phone from my pocket and fired off a text to Zachary.

Me: Bring breakfast and some clean clothes. Two iced white chocolate mochas with almond milk and cold foam, and that bacon-egg-hashbrowns sandwich I like, extra bacon. Two portions. Meet me at the curb as soon as you can.

Zachary: Got it. On my way.

I pocketed the phone and jogged down the steps. I really needed to go home and take a shower. I was a sweaty, cum-stained mess . . . but I also needed to make sure she ate, so hopefully it wasn’t immediately obvious when she saw me that I’d spent the last hour conducting covert operations under her bed.

Fifteen minutes later, the black SUV pulled up to the curb. I climbed into the back and began changing my clothes. I stripped fast, unbuttoning my shirt, and then shoving my pants down. Dust and the faint scent of her apartment clung to the fabric, and I balled them up and shoved them on the floor before changing into the clean clothes he’d brought. Zachary played on his phone the entire time; he was very used to my bullshit at this point.

“Interesting coffee order,” he said mildly as he handed me a pastel monstrosity topped with cold foam and caramel drizzle, along with her portion of the food.

I looked down at the drink. There were pink sprinkles in the cold foam and somehow a heart-shaped swirl.

“She likes it,” I said simply.

Zachary glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “It has glitter.”

I looked down again and saw he was right. “I would agree it’s aggressively festive.” I took a slow sip from one of them and nodded approvingly. “It’s delicious, though.”

He blinked at me for a second, like I was some alien beamed down from a distant planet, before he turned back to his phone.

“Stay close, I’ll be quick,” I instructed as I stepped out of the car, bag and coffee in hand.

He nodded once, and I walked back to her building and took the stairs two at a time, almost dying because of a step that had come loose.

A minute later she was answering the door, her hair dripping wet from the shower and her cheeks flushed.

Again . . . I knew exactly why.

Like usual, her eyes widened when she saw me. I wondered when she’d finally get used to me showing up. “Jagger?” Her voice was soft and surprised . . . and a little breathless. “What are you⁠—”

I stepped closer, crowding her space just enough to make her pulse jump in her throat. “Brought you breakfast, sweetheart.” I lifted the bag and coffee slightly and then leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

I pressed my lips to her cheek, and her breath hitched. When I pulled back, her cheeks were brighter, and her lips were parted. She took the bag and coffee from me, her fingers brushing mine.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I didn’t step back. I stayed right there in her doorway, pretending like I didn’t want to peel off her clothes with my teeth.

Eden clutched the coffee and bag like they were lifelines, her eyes flicking down to them, then up to me again. That warmth I’d seen in them was dimming—something heavier settling in its place.

“What’s on your plate today, baby?” I murmured, hoping she was about to say nothing and I could make an excuse about why we should spend the whole day together.

She swallowed and looked past my shoulder for a second like the hallway might give her an out. When her gaze came back, it was guarded. “I . . . I have to pick up Ryan’s ashes this afternoon. Then spread them. Somewhere open. He hated dark, enclosed spaces—he’d been claustrophobic since we were kids in the trailer park. Couldn’t even sleep with the door shut.” A small, broken laugh escaped her. “I didn’t have money for a real funeral anyway. Just the cremation. So this seems like the bare minimum.”

Her words came out flat at the end, like she was reciting a grocery list instead of talking about burying the man she’d spent half her life with. Her free hand—the one not holding the coffee—had been resting lightly on the doorframe. Now it dropped, and when I reached for it, she pulled away, her fingers curling into her palm.

The rejection landed deep, a blade sliding between my ribs. I wanted to grab that hand back, pin it to the wall, make her feel me, feel us. But I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I let my own hand fall slowly and once again reminded her, “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I’m going to. It’s . . . it’s something I need to finish.”

“I can drive you⁠—”

“No,” she said firmly.

I stepped back then, finally giving her space, though every instinct in me strained against it.

“I’ll text you,” she said, like a compromise. And it was. She hadn’t used my number once since I’d forced her to exchange numbers with me the night of Ryan’s death.

“You’d better,” I replied.

She closed the door gently—not slamming it, but not lingering, either.

I stayed there a moment after the lock clicked, staring at the faded wood and the thin crack running down the center panel, memorizing it like it might matter.

I had reduced Ryan to something that fit in an urn . . . and I was already planning where I’d stand when she let him go.

CHAPTER 18

EDEN

The bottle was sweating by the time we got it open.

It was cheap champagne that we’d bought with crumpled bills from the gas station down the street because we’d wanted something that felt like a celebration and didn’t care that it wasn’t good. Ryan wrestled with the cork while I sat cross-legged on the hood of our car, the desert night still clinging to our skin, Vegas glowing in the distance like a mirage.

“Careful,” I laughed. “You’re gonna take an eye out.”

“That would be a terrible way to start a new life,” he said, grinning, his hair falling into his face the way it always did when he was excited. “First night in Vegas, and I immediately maim myself.”

The cork popped anyway, ricocheting off into the dark. We both froze for a beat, then burst out laughing like idiots, the sounds spilling out of us loudly.

We didn’t even have cups. Ryan handed me the bottle first, and I took a sip that made my face twist immediately.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, “that’s awful.”

He took it from me and drank anyway, wincing just as hard. “I think it’s perfect,” he decided. “Exactly what this moment deserves.”

We wandered into the park with the bottle swinging between us, the grass still damp from sprinklers, the swings creaking softly in the warm night breeze. The place was quiet and empty except for us and the distant hum of traffic, and it felt like we’d stumbled onto something secret.

Ryan climbed onto one of the swings and pushed off hard, the champagne sloshing dangerously. “Okay,” he said, suddenly serious, dragging his feet until he slowed and looked at me. “Toast time.”

I raised an imaginary glass, smiling despite the tight feeling in my chest. “To not dying in the desert.”

He rolled his eyes. “No. To us.” Ryan cleared his throat dramatically. “To getting out,” he said. “To never going back to the people we were stuck being. To a place where nobody knows our mistakes and nobody expects anything from us except to keep going.”

I swallowed, emotion pressing behind my ribs.

“To a place where we can be loud,” he went on, gaining momentum now. “Where we can mess up and start over, and it won’t haunt us forever. Where we get to be everything we are without apologizing for it.”

He lifted the bottle toward me, earnest and unguarded. “To our new life, Eden. Whatever the hell it turns out to be.”

I clinked my invisible glass against his bottle and smiled, even though I strangely felt like crying. “To all of it.”

We drank under the Vegas sky, sitting side by side on the swings, legs brushing, and hope so thick between us it felt tangible. For that moment, it really did feel like we’d made it. Like the hardest part was already behind us.

That was the last time I remember us being that happy.

The park looked grungier than it had then, more worn and stripped down. The grass was thin and patchy, trampled down to dirt in places, the green dulled by years of sun and too little care. Rust crept along the swing chains, flaking into orange dust. The paint on the seats had faded to a tired blue, chipped and peeling at the edges.

I stood just inside the rusted gate with the urn pressed to my stomach and let the place settle into me. Las Vegas hummed beyond the fence, loud and indifferent, the city unchanged by my loss.

It seemed right that I would come here for this.

Not a cemetery. Not somewhere quiet and meant for endings. This park had never been about endings for us. This was where we’d toasted beginnings. Where we’d said the words out loud and believed them.

This was when we were happy.

The swings were still there, one hanging slightly lower than the other, and my chest tightened as I walked toward them, memory closing in fast and familiar.

I sat on the left one without thinking because Ryan always took the right.

The urn was heavier than it looked as I settled it into my lap, the cool metal stark against the heat of the day. I stared at the shallow trench worn into the dirt beneath my feet, carved there by years of kids dragging their shoes, slowing themselves down because flying forward felt like too much.

I pushed off gently, just enough to sway.

“It seemed fitting,” I said quietly, “to come here.”

The chains whispered with each movement, the sound pulling at something deep and tender inside me. I leaned back, letting the pale sky fill my vision.

“This was before everything,” I went on. “Before we got tired. Before hope started costing more than we could afford.”

The breeze rattled the empty swing beside me as though it was waiting for him, and I could almost see him there again, lanky and bright, swinging too high, laughing like the future was a promise instead of a gamble.

“I believed you,” I told him. “Every word.”

The swing slowed beneath me until it barely moved at all, my toes tracing faint lines through the dirt without really meaning to stop. I let it settle there, my body heavy, my chest tight in that familiar way grief took when it wasn’t sharp anymore, when it hurt because something precious had existed and then slipped out of reach.

“I don’t miss the end,” I said quietly, staring at the empty swing beside mine. “I think you know that.”

The breeze nudged the chains, warm and dry, and I closed my eyes.

The memory didn’t arrive all at once. It seeped in, the way memories always did, sound first and then sensation, pulling me under before I realized I was gone.

I was sixteen again, sitting on a swing with my shoulders curled inward and my breath coming apart in uneven pulls. My arm throbbed with every heartbeat, a deep, spreading ache that had already bloomed purple and blue beneath my skin. I’d pushed my sleeve up without thinking, needing air on it even though it didn’t help.

It hadn’t been meant for me.

She’d thrown it at my stepdad. I couldn’t even remember what it was now, only how it had left her hand and hit my arm instead, the impact knocking the breath clean out of me.

My mother hadn’t said anything afterward. She’d just turned away, already done, and I’d stood there for a second too long before realizing my hands were shaking.

Ryan found me here.

I heard him before I saw him, his footsteps quick and uneven as he crossed the park. When he dropped in front of me, his face was tight with a kind of anger I’d never seen turned outward before, not at me.

“Eden,” he said, breathless, like he’d been running. “What happened?”

I shook my head automatically, a reflex I’d learned early. “I’m fine.”

He knelt in front of me and gently took my wrist and turned my arm so he could see the bruise. “Fuck,” he muttered, quieter now. Not angry at me, but at the world . . . at them.

I started crying, and my vision blurred as I tried to swallow the tears back and failed. “She didn’t even apologize,” I said in a halting, breaking voice. “She just . . . walked away.”

Ryan didn’t say anything at first. He pulled his hoodie off instead, wrapping it carefully around my arm, cushioning the bruise like he could protect it from getting any worse. His hands were warm, and it made the shaking in me finally start to ease.

“I’m gonna get you out of there,” he said finally. “I promise.”

He’d said it before, and like all those times, I savored the promise.

Ryan leaned in, and his forehead rested gently against mine. “You shouldn’t have to be tough all the time. You shouldn’t have to get hit for someone else’s mess.”

I cried harder at that, at the way his voice cracked just enough to give him away.

“I won’t let this be your life forever,” he whispered. “I swear.”

I opened my eyes, the present rushing back in around me, the park worn and quiet and empty except for the promise I was still holding.

That was the boy I missed.

Not the man he became. Not the years that followed. The boy who wrapped my arm in his hoodie and believed that love could be armor if you meant it enough. The boy who looked at me like I was something worth protecting, even when we had nothing but cracked sidewalks and secondhand shoes. The boy who swore he’d build me something better one day and actually believed he could.

Somewhere along the way, he’d slipped out of that skin.

It wasn’t on me who he had become. I’d done everything to try to keep us together. You can’t save someone who’s determined to unravel.

But the boy had been real.

And so had the promise.

I stood, the urn heavy but steady in my hands, and walked toward the tree at the edge of the park. The bark was rough beneath my palm, the roots pushing up through dirt that had always been uneven.

“That’s who I’m saying goodbye to,” I whispered as I knelt beneath its branches. “The promise. Not the failure.”

My fingers rested on the lid, and I realized I felt calmer now.

“You meant it then,” I whispered. “And I know that.”

I would hold on to that part. The sincerity. The way he’d loved me when we were still small and fearless and certain the world could be bent to our will.

The wind brushed against my skin again, tugging at my hair like it wanted this over with. I twisted the lid free, and the ash shifted softly inside the urn.

“I hope you finally found some peace,” I murmured.

The breeze caught my first handful and carried it outward, scattering it into open air.

And I let the boy go.

CHAPTER 19

EDEN

Iwoke slowly, the kind of slow that only came after real, uninterrupted sleep.

For a moment, I stayed where I was, suspended in the unfamiliar luxury of feeling rested. My body felt loose instead of braced, my head clear instead of humming with low-grade dread.

I hadn’t slept this deeply in . . . I couldn’t even remember. Maybe I’d never slept like this, not without jolting awake at every sound. Not without listening for a door slamming, a bottle clanging, or footsteps pacing.

This week, though, my body had simply . . . let go.

And that realization carried a thin thread of guilt through the calm.

It felt wrong that I was finally resting now. That my muscles weren’t braced for whatever Ryan might do next. For the next spiral. The next apology. The next crash. It was as if my nervous system had quietly decided the watch was over and understood it no longer had to stand guard.

I took a deep breath and frowned.

The scent slid in so subtly I didn’t register it at first—until my stomach clenched in response. Clean and dark and impossibly good, it moved through the air, settling low in my body before my brain could catch up. Heat flared in my chest, an instinctive reaction that made no sense and felt embarrassingly intimate.

The smell was everywhere, threaded through every breath I took. It made my pulse pick up, and my breath deepen . . . I sat up, unsettled. This was the third morning that I’d smelled it.

The first time, I’d told myself it was nothing. The second morning, I’d laughed it off again, and chalked it up to my brain inventing things because it wanted to feel something.

But three mornings in a row felt like more than coincidence.

Swinging my legs out of bed, I stood and scanned the room as if the answer might be hiding somewhere obvious. The window was shut, though, and a quick glance toward the front door showed me it was still locked. Everything was exactly as it had been before bed.

I pressed my fingers to my throat and swallowed. “You’re imagining it,” I murmured, though the words didn’t quite convince me.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My heart lifted instantly at the sound, and even though I knew I shouldn’t be this excited to see him, I still practically raced toward the door. I pulled it open . . . and the anticipation of seeing Jagger drained out of me immediately.

An older gentleman stood in the hallway, his silver hair neatly combed and his dark suit pressed to perfection. He balanced a covered tray in one hand and held a dozen lush red roses in the other.

“Can I help you?” I asked, staring at him confused.

“Hi, Ms. Thorne. My name is Zachary. I work for Jagger Thatcher. These are for you,” he replied with a warm smile as he handed me the roses. I stared at them in shock. No one had ever given me flowers before, and certainly not a dozen roses.

“May I?” he asked, holding up the tray. I realized he wanted to set it down, and I moved to the side so he could step through the doorframe and set the tray on the counter. Whatever was beneath the cover smelled delicious, but it was that other scent I kept catching every time I inhaled.

Stepping back out the door, he reached into his jacket and produced a sleek, fancy new cell phone.

“This is also for you,” he said, holding it out. “Mr. Thatcher asked that you have it. He would like you to use this phone.”

My fingers curled reflexively at my side. “Why? I have a phone.”

Zachary’s expression remained pleasant. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Thatcher mentioned that. He simply felt you deserved an upgrade.”

“Mine works,” I said, a little too quickly. “It makes calls.”

“I’m sure it does,” he replied kindly. “But this one has better reception, a proper camera, access to maps, rideshare services, banking apps—things that make life easier. He thought you shouldn’t have to struggle with a device that freezes when you try to open a text thread.”

I blinked. “It does not⁠—”

He tilted his head politely.

“Okay, sometimes . . .” I muttered.

“He also asked that you use this one so he can reach you directly,” he continued. “No missed messages. No dropped calls. He travels frequently and prefers . . . reliability.”

That didn’t sound criminal. It sounded annoyingly thoughtful, actually.

“I don’t need anything this fancy,” I said, though my voice had softened.

“It isn’t about fancy,” he replied. “It’s about convenience. He said you’ve had enough inconvenience lately.”

My stomach did that strange little dip again.

“He’s already programmed his number in,” Zachary added. “And a few contacts in case you ever need assistance with anything—car trouble, repairs, scheduling.”

My fingers twitched, and I almost reached for it. It would be so nice not to have dropped calls anymore . . . to not have to stand by a window and angle my cheap phone toward the sky like I was begging the gods for a signal. Not to mention internet . . . although, there was no way I could pay for a plan with that.

No. I couldn’t take it. That would be too much, right? That would be stepping over a line I definitely shouldn’t cross, not with my husband gone just a few days.

“I can’t take the phone,” I finally said. “I really can’t.”

Zachary didn’t look flustered. If anything, he looked mildly amused, as if this was a step he’d already anticipated. He glanced down at the device in his hand just as it rang.

He lifted his brows at me. “That would be Mr. Thatcher. And he asked me to mention he’ll simply keep calling until you answer.”

I exhaled through my nose, equal parts irritated and touched, then reached for the phone because apparently my pride had limits. I lifted it to my ear.

“Jagger,” I said, and the way my voice softened annoyed me instantly.

“There’s that gorgeous voice,” Jagger said, sounding pleased, like he’d just won a bet with himself.

I closed my eyes. “I can’t take the phone.”

“I knew you’d try to fight it,” he replied easily. “You’re predictable that way. Stubborn first and practical second. Acceptance comes later.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “I don’t want it.”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, unconcerned. “Friends have each other’s numbers.”

I scoffed before I could stop myself. “Red roses don’t exactly scream friends.”

“They don’t?” he asked innocently. I could hear the smile in his voice now. “That’s odd. I distinctly remember telling the florist friends. Maybe she misheard. Or maybe roses are just . . . friendly flowers.”

“They’re romantic,” I shot back. “Anyone who’s ever read a romance book knows that.”

“Well,” he said, “that feels like a matter of interpretation. I’ll have to read those books and figure out what they’re talking about. Although . . . if you want to call the roses romantic, I totally won’t object.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You can’t honestly pretend this is normal.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Jagger replied. “I’m being very transparent. I like having a way to reach you. I like knowing you can reach me. And I don’t see why we’d make that complicated.”

“You don’t see why,” I repeated flatly.

“Not even a little?” he said cheerfully. “You’ll probably use it to tell me off. I’m comfortable with that risk. I’ll enjoy it.”

I glanced at the roses, then the phone in my hand, then at Zachary, who had very politely started pretending he was fascinated by the decrepit hallway stairs.

“Jagger,” I muttered.

“We’re allowed to be friends who enjoy each other.” His voice dropped into something delicious that made me want to rub my thighs together.

I let out a long breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said lightly, “you’re still holding the phone.”

The silence stretched, and I was aware of how intimate it had become.

“You’re keeping it,” he said firmly.

I stared at the screen, then at the roses again, then at the perfectly composed man standing a few feet away, waiting like he had all the time in the world.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll keep the phone.”

The pause on the other end of the line was filled with smug satisfaction.

“Good,” Jagger said. “Now, eat breakfast before my driver cries.”

I blinked. “Before who cries?”

“Zachary,” he said. “He hates watching food go cold. It makes him emotional.”

My gaze slid to the older gentleman in front of me, who stood as straight-backed and unreadable as ever, his expression giving absolutely nothing away.

Somehow, I didn’t think that would be a problem.

“I think he’ll survive,” I said dryly.

A quiet chuckle hummed through the phone. “I wouldn’t bet against him.”

I shook my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ll see you later, friend,” he murmured. The call ended before I’d stopped swooning.

I lowered the phone slowly and looked back at the man in front of me. “I’m keeping it,” I said, like I needed to say it out loud to make it real.

Zachary’s mouth curved into a knowing grin, the first crack in his composure since he’d arrived.

“You’ll find,” he said lightly, “that Mr. Thatcher is very persuasive . . . and he usually gets what he wants.”

My stomach tightened as I looked down at the phone that was now in my hand.

Yes.

That was exactly what I was worried about.

CHAPTER 20

JAGGER

It was always strange seeing Gage in daylight.

Not unsettling exactly. Just . . . weird. Like spotting a wolf asleep in the sun, belly-up, looking almost harmless if you didn’t know better.

He sat across from me at the long table in the back of the restaurant with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his forearms braced casually against the wood. His hair was the color of wet sand, darker at the roots and lighter where the sun had bleached it over time. Gage’s features were balanced in a way that made him immediately approachable, a face people opened up to without realizing they were doing it. There was something composed in his gaze, quiet and attentive, like the sort of man you’d trust with directions—or a secret—without thinking twice.

Federal agent by day.

Our problem solver by night.

I took a sip of my drink and studied him over the rim of the glass. “No wonder you don’t ever go on dates during daylight hours,” I said. “You look like a completely different person right now.”

Gage scoffed. “Please. I’m devastating in all lighting. Daylight just gives the public a fair warning.”

I huffed out a laugh. I guess he wasn’t wrong. Like all of us, Gage was unfairly good-looking, or at least that’s what I’d heard said multiple times.

I didn’t see what the fuss was about for anyone but me, honestly.

I would say that Gage was exceptional at moving like he belonged wherever he was—courtroom, gala, dive bar—it didn’t matter. People trusted him before he opened his mouth.

Which was hilarious, considering.

The restaurant around us was empty, the front doors locked. We owned Velluto, and it usually had a thriving lunch business when it was open to the public. Gage and I had things to discuss . . . so today it was closed.

Gage leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. “You didn’t call me here to admire my face.”

“No,” I said. “Although, I can’t recall ever doing that. So I hope that’s not what you’ve been thinking all this time.”

The eye roll he gave me was very unbecoming of a Federal Bureau of Investigation agent.

I studied him for another second, clocking the faint tremor of restless energy under his calm. “How many energy drinks have you had today?”

Gage didn’t even blink. “Three.”

“Three,” I repeated. “Since when?”

“Since this morning,” he clarified. “Alanis. The cherry ones specifically, because everyone knows they’re the best.”

I stared at him. “It’s barely noon.”

“And yet,” he said pleasantly, “I remain among the living.”

I wondered often how that was possible. I’d read somewhere that the human heart could only handle so much caffeine, and I was positive that Gage blew right through that amount before breakfast.

Taking a sip of my drink, I shook my head. “So what’s the word on the feds’ reaction to the shocking revelation that dear old Vegas might be run by the mafia?”

Gage’s smile turned thin. “Outrage. Disbelief. A lot of very serious faces pretending they already knew and they’d been ‘working’ on it.”

I barked out a quiet laugh.

“Officially,” he went on, “it’s ‘unverified speculation’ and ‘media sensationalism.’ A lot of polished statements about ongoing reviews and commitment to public safety.”

“And that means?”

“They look blindsided,” he said. “And they hate that.”

I nodded once. “And operationally.”

“They’re playing it safe,” Gage said. “There aren’t going to be any raids yet. They don’t want to tip us off.” He grinned as he said that, considering they tipped us off every single day without realizing it. “Right now it’s financial mapping and trying to identify our shell companies. I saw a chart yesterday with a list of casinos, construction firms, and what ‘consulting offices’ were used for each project.”

“I’m sure that’s going well,” I mused. That was something else they’d never be able to unwind.

“They’re bringing in analysts from New York and DC,” Gage continued. “People who don’t know this city, but they’ve studied the organizations back East, so they think that makes them qualified to untangle Vegas.”

“I think Lucian would disagree with that assessment,” I said as I took another drink. I leaned forward slightly. “What do you think the timeline is for when they start showing up?”

Gage didn’t hesitate. “A month.”

I lifted a brow. “That fast?” That was very inconvenient because it meant more time away from Eden handling things. I needed to get this shored up with her immediately. I had to get her out of that apartment.

Even with that timeline, there was still only so long I could function trying to sleep on that mattress before I went insane.

Well . . . more insane than I was already behaving. Drugging your love interest so you could sleep with her every night was probably frowned upon by most people.

I started adjusting pieces in my head. “Feed them something small.”

“I already am,” he said, looking faintly offended that I’d even suggested it.

“Something noisy,” I clarified. “Complicated enough to keep them busy. Not important enough to matter.”

Gage’s mouth tilted. “A mid-level laundering channel tied to a contractor who’s about to retire?”

“Hmm, they’ll smell something off with that,” I said.

He tapped his glass against the table, considering. “What if I give them an old real estate partnership that brushes up against one of the New York families? It’s dusty, mostly dissolved, but it’ll light up their charts and keep them busy arguing over who owns it.”

I thought about it, then nodded. “That should work.”

His fingers suddenly stilled on the glass. His gaze drifted past me, unfocused, as though he was watching something rearrange itself in the air.

The easy charm slipped, and his eyes went a cold, flat, pale gray, like frost over a frozen lake hiding something long dead beneath.

The memory slammed into me without warning.

A dim warehouse outside Henderson. Concrete floors stained dark and sticky under the single hanging bulb. The air was thick with bleach and copper, so intense it burned the back of my throat with every inhale, like breathing through a wet rag soaked in pennies.

A man was strapped upright to a metal frame, his wrists and ankles bound so tightly the rope had already bitten through skin and into muscle. He was breathing in ragged, wet gasps interspersed with broken, snot-choked sobbing pleas. Gage tilted his head, and the pleading abruptly stopped.

Gage peeled the man’s face first. The scalpel tip kissed the hairline, then dragged down along the jaw in one smooth, unhurried line, parting flesh like wet paper. Blood welled in perfect crimson beads that were bright against his paling skin, then ran in thin rivers. He lifted the edges with gloved fingers and gently pulled.

The face came away in one piece, a glistening, dripping mask of skin with the muscle and fat left behind. The man’s scream turned high and shredded as the cold air of the room hit his exposed nerves. Gage didn’t flinch or even blink at the sound. He just held the flap of skin up to the light like he was inspecting a piece of fabric before setting it aside on the crate next to him with the same care he’d use to set down a coffee cup.

He moved to the man’s arms next. Cutting in long, careful strokes down the forearms, Gage curled the blade under to separate dermis from muscle. Skin sloughed off in wide, translucent sheets, red and veined, like peeled fruit, landing on the concrete with soft, wet slaps. The man jerked against the restraints, his veins pulsing under the raw meat that used to be his arms, every twitch sending fresh blood splattering to the floor.

Gage’s face never changed. He didn’t look excited or disgusted . . . He simply kept that same flat, surgical calm—like he was disassembling a broken appliance instead of a person. When the man’s screams dissolved into gurgling whimpers, Gage peeled the torso open, stripping away every inch of skin until nothing remained that could be recognized. No face. No fingerprints. No story left to tell.

Just glistening red muscle, exposed tendons twitching like dying worms, and the slow drip of blood pooling beneath the frame in a widening dark mirror.

When he was finished, Gage wiped the blade clean on the man’s own discarded shirt . . . and then looked at me and smiled.

That same surgical emptiness stared back at me now.

“Come back to me, buddy,” I said softly, watching as he slowly blinked and the light returned to his eyes. Being close friends with a psychopath wasn’t the easiest thing, but we’d all figured out how to manage it.

“Well, look at this,” a familiar voice called warmly. “My favorite investors, gracing me with their presence.”

Dominic Bianchi swept toward the table as if he was still walking into a dining room in Milan instead of a strip mall–adjacent jewel box in Vegas. He was wearing his usual perfectly tailored jacket with a silk pocket square, and his dark hair was threaded with silver at the temples. The man held multiple Michelin stars and never let anyone forget it.

We owned the restaurant, but Dominic ran it. And he ran it like it was his kingdom.

“Numbers are up again this quarter,” he announced proudly, clasping my shoulder before shaking Gage’s hand. “Eighteen percent. Private dining bookings are saving you heathens from yourselves.”

“Imagine that,” I said dryly. “People like good food.”

He sniffed. “They like my food.”

He adjusted his cuff and glanced toward the windows with theatrical disgust. “And I achieve this excellence in a climate that is actively hostile to human life. Forty degrees Celsius last week. In Milan, we have seasons. Here, we have the sun trying to murder you.”

“You say that every week,” I reminded him.

“Because it remains true.”

Gage smirked into his drink.

Dominic kept talking—something about a wine program expansion, a critic flying in from Chicago, and a new truffle supplier he was convinced would change our lives.

I was only half listening because over Dominic’s shoulder, near the bar, an employee I didn’t recognize was standing there, slowly rolling silverware. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and he had black hair that appeared to be holding an entire vat of gel. Besides the unfortunate hair, there was nothing in particular that was notable about him . . . except for the fact that I’d never seen him before.

That alone set my blood humming with warning.

Since this was a restaurant that we owned and used frequently for business meetings . . . we closely monitored who worked here. We didn’t hire just anyone. Every person who moved through these doors was someone who’d been carefully vetted. No exceptions.

“Dom,” I said casually, nodding behind him. “Who’s that employee?”

Dominic frowned. “Who?”

He turned to follow my line of sight.

Behind him, the man’s hand slipped from the silverware to his pocket. A second later, he was raising a phone and aiming it at our table. A flash sliced across the room, and for a second, no one moved.

The man shoved the phone back down and took off toward the front door, somehow unlocking it in the blink of an eye and pushing outside into the raging heat.

“What the fuck?” I growled, already shoving out of the booth. “I’ve got him,” I threw to Gage as I ran.

He nodded and headed straight for the kitchen doors without a word or a backward glance.

We were careful.

Always.

The Syndicate’s business was layered, buried under shell companies and polite corporate fronts. On paper, nothing connected the dots in a way that would hold.

But Gage wore a badge. And even if he wasn’t assigned anywhere near us, even if no one officially suspected anything, we did not get photographed casually having lunch together.

Not where someone could spin it.

That was why we used Velluto for this kind of meeting. We closed it to the public for “a private event,” sat at a back table with no sightlines from the street, and used staff who were vetted within an inch of their lives.

There was nothing technically illegal about me sitting across from a federal agent in a restaurant we owned. I didn’t have any warrants, and none of us were under any surveillance that we were aware of.

But optics mattered.

And some random asshole snapping a picture of us together was not my favorite development of the day.

I burst onto the sidewalk, the noise of the Strip crashing down around me in a rush of engines, laughter, and music bleeding from an open casino entrance across the street. I caught a glimpse of the guy’s greasy black hair to my left. He was running like someone who knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t.

And I was furious.

I hit the pavement, trying to track him as he cut right, then left, weaving through pedestrians who shouted as he clipped shoulders and elbows, his phone clenched in his hand now like a lifeline. Tourists scattered, confused, dragging luggage and drinks and sunburned limbs straight into his path.

The motherfucker was fast, though.

He vaulted a short concrete divider and sprinted into a parking lot, his shoes skidding on oil-slick asphalt as he aimed for the far row where cars sat baking in the sun.

My phone started vibrating in my pocket as I cleared the curb and cut left, dodging a couple dragging rolling suitcases as though they were obstacles in a poorly designed course.

I ignored the call, following the guy as he jumped another concrete divider and bolted across the next block, his panic turning his movements sloppy but fast. I lengthened my stride, the heat burning against my skin.

This was going to ruin my new suit.

The phone buzzed again, and I cursed under my breath and yanked it out mid-stride, my thumb swiping the screen without breaking pace.

“Are you dying?” I asked.

“What?” Jace said. “Why would that be your immediate assumption?”

“Because you keep calling me,” I said, cutting between two pedestrians who shouted as I clipped past them. “That’s usually how people announce emergencies.”

There was a brief pause. Then he said, “Why do you sound out of breath?”

“I’m jogging,” I said.

“You hate jogging,” Jace replied immediately. “You once told me cardio was a scam invented by people with too much time and not enough enemies. Who’s your enemy, Jagger-meister?”

“Maybe I decided that was shortsighted and it would actually be a good hobby,” I gasped as I had to get over another fucking divider. Whoever had decided to put one on every block needed to be shot.

“By chance,” Jace said carefully, “are you running in dress shoes?”

I barked out a breathless laugh. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because it feels like something someone sketchy would do,” he said. “And you sound sketchy.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Jace countered. “Normal people jog in athletic wear. I bet you only run when something’s on fire or you’re fleeing.”

The guy cut toward a narrow gap between two buildings, and I pushed harder, finally closing the distance.

“I’m not chasing anyone,” I said, “but I do need to go.”

I reached out as the waiter stumbled, my fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt before he tore free with a strained, frantic sound.

“Jagger,” Jace said slowly, “you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” I asked, hurdling a low barrier as the man cut toward the service road.

“The thing where you sound like you’re five seconds away from becoming a headline,” he replied. “And I think I just heard a whimper. Why would I hear a whimper? Did you answer my call during sex again, and what I’m hearing is not actually jogging?”

“It’s called interval training,” I said. “It’s all the rage.”

The waiter sprinted across the next block, nearly clipping a couple tourists who shrieked as he blew past them. He glanced back, his panic growing when he saw how close I was getting again.

“You’re chasing someone,” Jace said with growing confidence. “I can hear it in your breathing.”

“Did you need something, little brother?” I replied. “Because . . . this is kind of an inconvenient time.”

I made a mental note to actually pick up jogging. While I was mostly into weights and boxing . . . it was clear after this experience that I actually needed to up my cardio.

Sex is cardio, though. I could have Eden help me with that.

“Yep, definitely chasing someone,” Jace said. “I can hear asphalt and fear now.”

“That’s dramatic,” I replied, vaulting a low chain barrier as the guy nearly ate pavement trying to clear it.

“You just grunted.”

“I did not grunt.”

“You definitely grunted.”

The guy veered hard left, trying to lose me between a row of dumpsters and a stack of crates. Cute. I adjusted my angle and closed the gap another three feet.

“You’re gaining on him,” Jace said confidently.

“I’m not gaining on anyone.”

“Your breath changed. Now you’re doing your predator breathing thing.”

“What the hell is that? I do not do that!”

“You absolutely have predator breathing,” he argued.

“I’m hanging up,” I warned.

“One more thing!” he said loudly.

“What?” I growled.

The man burst back into sunlight ahead of me, barely missing a valet stand.

“This is really important,” he continued.

“Spit it out,” I huffed.

“I just want to make sure you haven’t started drinking iced milk during your jogs . . .” Jace said.

I ended the call without ceremony and shoved the phone into my pocket in disgust, right as the man finally made his mistake and cut hard right into an alley without another exit.

It was narrow and half shadowed, a place tourists never noticed or ventured into unless they were incredibly lost. Dumpsters lined one wall, and graffiti climbed the faded, dirty brick of the buildings like vines.

His shoes slipped slightly as he tried to launch himself over the ten-foot chain-link fence. I stopped running and watched him attempt to be Spider-Man for a second.

My silence may have been less to seem scary and more because I didn’t want to gasp when I spoke to him, but I’d never admit that to anyone.

He finally stopped trying to climb the impossible fence and slowly turned to face me. I watched as the defiance drained from his features and real fear settled in. His chest rose and fell in uneven pulls, and he clutched his phone like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Want to tell me why you took that picture?” I asked pleasantly as I prowled toward him.

“I can’t,” he said, the words cracking as they left his mouth. His hands flew up in a frantic plea, and I had the detached thought that I was fairly certain that gesture had never actually altered anyone’s fate.

I caught him by the front of his shirt and drove him back into the brick, the impact knocking the air clean out of him. He made a thin, broken sound as his head snapped to the side and his breath left his body in a wheeze.

“This is a bad choice,” I said calmly. “Because the other man you took a picture of terrifies even me, and if I have to give you to him . . .”

My voice trailed off right as one of my black SUVs rolled into view and stopped at the entrance of the alley.

The guy made a garbled, choking sound, but he didn’t start blurting out his secrets, so I guess I could give him some credit. With that hairdo, I was thinking he’d be the type to fold immediately.

Zachary stepped out of the driver’s seat and waited by the passenger door as I dragged the kid off the wall and toward the vehicle, his feet scraping uselessly against the pavement as he began struggling against my hold. Zachary opened the rear passenger door . . . where Gage waited inside.

“I did warn you,” I drawled as Gage lifted his pale gray eyes to mine, fully in his “nighttime” version alter ego.

The guy saw him fully then, really saw him. And whatever bravado he’d scraped together shattered. “Please,” he choked, shaking so hard I could feel it through my grip. “Just—just kill me now. I can’t tell you anything. I swear. I can’t.”

Gage tilted his head slightly, studying him like he was something mildly interesting in a lab.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said calmly.

I shoved the kid into the back seat. He landed half on the floorboard, scrambling uselessly as Zachary closed the door with a solid, final click.

The SUV’s engine purred.

I slid in beside Gage, straightening my cuffs as if we were heading to a board meeting instead of about to make a skin suit.

The man’s breath came in frantic, hitching pulls.

“I assume you already sent the picture to someone?” I asked as I grabbed his phone. It was frankly embarrassing that I’d had to chase him through Vegas. His phone wasn’t even password protected.

Despite all his sniveling, the man still didn’t answer me. I scrolled through his messages myself, my jaw tightening when I saw the photo had already been sent to a number that practically screamed burner.

I exhaled slowly and pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose.

Of course it had. Of course something had to get complicated right when I was finally making progress with Eden.

I had thirty days to manage the feds. I had to find our missing weapons shipment. I had a wayward photographer with the survival instincts of a goldfish to deal with. And somewhere in the middle of that, I was trying to convince a grieving widow to let me closer without spooking her.

I dropped my hand and looked at our captive again.

This was all becoming very inconvenient.

Gage pulled out a serrated serial killer–looking knife and started playing with it. The man made a little screaming noise.

“Relax,” Gage told him calmly. “You have a few hours.”

The smell of urine filled the car as the man pissed himself, and I grimaced and shifted slightly toward the door.

“Zachary just had this detailed.”

Gage glanced down at the trembling mess at our feet, then back at me, faint irritation flickering across his face.

“And I haven’t even cut him yet,” he muttered.

CHAPTER 21

EDEN

It was like I didn’t recognize the place.

Which was ridiculous, because I’d worked here for years.

The casino floor glittered and chimed and pulsed like it always had—but it felt like I was walking through it underwater, everything slightly distorted, slightly off.

The lights flashed and blinked overhead, machines chiming in endless celebration for wins that were usually just pennies. Laughter rose from the blackjack tables. Glasses clinked. Chips stacked. Dealers called out totals in smooth, rehearsed voices.

Life went on.

That was the strangest part.

I stood just inside the employee entrance for a second longer than necessary, my name badge cool against my palm. My reflection in the metal door looked like me—same hair, same face—but there was something slightly misaligned in my eyes, like I’d been shifted half an inch out of place.

“You’re here?” Carl asked when he opened the door and saw me standing there adjusting my uniform. He stepped inside with a clipboard tucked under his arm, looking subtly surprised, even though I’d called HR yesterday to get back on the schedule.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. Even though I wasn’t sure that was the truth.

Rent didn’t care that my husband was ashes now, though, and tears certainly didn’t pay bills. There was also the fact that sitting alone in my apartment, listening to the silence scream, was its own special version of hell.

He offered me an awkward smile. “You don’t have to jump back in full speed. Just ease into it,” he said, watching me a moment longer, like he was considering saying more. Then he gave a small nod and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

I can do this.

I’d been doing this two weeks ago.

For one split second, the awful thought slid in before I could stop it . . . how I wasn’t carrying the same tightrope tension anymore. I wasn’t wondering what mood Ryan would be in when I got home. Whether he’d spent the day spiraling. Whether he’d lost or spent all our money before I even walked through the door.

There was no dread sitting under my ribs.

Because he was dead.

I hated myself for noticing the difference.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the double doors. The noise swallowed me immediately as I stepped fully onto the casino floor. And for a second, it felt like every color was too bright.

“Eden?” I turned and saw Leigh coming toward me, her tray tucked against her hip, ponytail swinging behind her. Her usual smile faltered when she got close enough to see my face.

“Oh my gosh,” she said softly, like she’d forgotten what she’d planned to say. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I managed.

She set the tray down on a nearby ledge and pulled me into a quick, careful hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered into my hair. The words slid over me, and I nodded against her shoulder because that seemed like the correct response.

When she pulled back, her eyes searched mine, probably trying to measure how broken I was if I had to guess.

“I’m okay,” I repeated, the lie smoother this time.

The awful thought tried to resurface again . . . that the air felt different now, lighter without the constant question of what he might do next, and I shoved it down.

“I just— I need to work,” I said quickly, stepping back before she could ask anything else. I could feel her watching me as I walked over to the floor manager and then started on my section. And it wasn’t just her . . . it felt like it was everyone.

I tried to focus on the familiar rhythm instead . . . the steady weight of the tray balanced against my palm, the soft click of my heels on marble, the automatic scan of my section to make sure every glass was full and every smile was timed just right. I moved; that was the trick. Keep moving. Keep smiling. Keep your hands busy so they don’t shake. I was good at this. I’d always been good at this.

My plan almost worked.

Until I caught my reflection in the mirrored column near the high-limit slots and saw the way Theo was looking at me from the bar. His head was tilted, brows drawn together, and there was a sympathetic curve to his mouth.

Widow, that’s what he was thinking. And before that, it had probably been Poor girl. Before that, someone else had been thinking Trailer park kid. There was always something about me that invited that look. Like people couldn’t decide whether to tip me or donate to me.

My jaw tightened. Was I ever going to get a different kind of stare? One that didn’t feel like someone mentally calculating what had gone wrong in my life?

Jagger never looks at me like that, an unwelcome voice reminded me.

His gaze had never made me feel pitiful. It had never skimmed over me like I was an unfortunate thing. When he looked at me, it felt as though I was the only real thing in the room. Like I was his top choice, not a charity case, or a cautionary tale.

My stomach dipped at the thought of it, and I straightened my shoulders and stepped toward my next table before I could unpack that too far.

Jagger walked in around midnight.

I knew it was him before I really saw him because my body reacted first. A tightening low in my stomach, a hitch in my breath . . . a shiver skating down my spine as if I’d just stepped into cold water.

I looked up automatically and blinked because it was immediately obvious that this wasn’t the easy, teasing version of him tonight, the one who leaned against counters and smirked like the world amused him.

He wasn’t wearing his jacket, just a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the fabric stretched clean and tight over muscle. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot tugged down like he’d stopped pretending to care about appearances somewhere along the way. His hair had fallen slightly forward, the strands brushing his forehead in a way that somehow made him look more dangerous. Like he’d already been somewhere else tonight. Done something else. And this was the version of him that showed up afterward.

When he slid into the booth in my section, he didn’t ease into it. He sprawled, one arm stretching along the back of the leather seat and his long legs claiming the floor beneath the table. The loosened tie and rolled sleeves should have made him look relaxed.

Instead, he looked like a king who’d taken off his crown because he didn’t need it.

I swallowed and forced myself to look away, my pulse thudding. This was not the Jagger I knew. This was not the man who’d been gentle with my grief, who’d distracted me when the silence got too loud, who’d made me laugh when it felt like laughing would crack me open.

This Jagger looked like he hadn’t slept and he was riding some kind of razor-thin line.

I made myself continue working like nothing had changed. I greeted guests, delivered drinks, smiled at men who tipped too little and leaned too close, and laughed in the right places like nothing inside me had shifted.

But every time I passed his booth, I felt him there.

Watching.

He didn’t scroll through his phone. Didn’t pretend to study a menu or glance at the machines nearby. He wasn’t gambling. He just sat there, his gaze steady and intent as I moved through my section.

When I finally got the courage to step up to his booth, I was sure I’d never experienced such an intense stare.

There was something hot and restless burning behind his eyes, and another shiver slid under my skin before I could stop it.

“Hi,” I said, because good evening felt wrong between us, like that would be us pretending we were strangers when we weren’t.

His eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they burned brighter, tracking every inch of my face like he was memorizing it again, like the time between this morning, when he’d brought me breakfast, and tonight had rewritten something fundamental.

“Hey,” he replied in a voice that was rougher than I was used to hearing. The sound of it curled straight through me.

“What can I get you?” I asked, folding my hands loosely in front of me so he wouldn’t see the way my fingers wanted to fidget.

“Whiskey, neat,” he said, and there was no smile or teasing add-on. No Dealer’s choice or Surprise me, like he most likely would’ve said before. I nodded and turned away. The awareness of him followed me across the floor, that burning stare a tangible thing at my back.

When I returned to his table and set the glass down, his hand shifted just slightly, close enough that the heat of his body brushed my knuckles. I inhaled sharply at the touch, and that was when I caught it . . . his scent.

It wrapped around me before I could stop it, sliding under my skin like it had been waiting.

That was what I’d been smelling in my apartment, morning after morning.

I straightened up quickly, my nerves skidding sideways. How had that happened? He’d barely been inside more than a handful of times. Those had been quick visits, brief conversations in cramped rooms, and yet, somehow, he’d lingered.

In the air and in my sheets. In my fucking senses every hour of the day.

“You’re back,” he said, not looking particularly pleased at that fact.

“Yeah,” I replied, a little snappier than I meant. “I decided that bereavement leave was very kind . . . but it was better for me to keep busy.”

He looked like he wanted to say something about that, but instead, he leaned back. “You shouldn’t be here,” he finally murmured, a little growl in his voice.

My spine straightened, irritation sparking hot through the unease. “That’s not your call.”

“I know,” he said immediately, his mouth pursed in regret. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” I all but snarled.

His gaze dragged across my face, down the line of my throat, and over my shoulders. It traced the dips of my collarbones and the curve where my blouse pulled tight across my breasts. I felt it when his attention moved lower—to the narrow line of my waist and over the swell of my hips beneath the fitted skirt.

The intensity didn’t ease at all.

“Are you . . . all right?” I choked out, feeling like I was about to combust.

His jaw ticked once, and he looked away as if he was trying to recalibrate. After a moment, his eyes came back to mine. “My business is having some issues,” he said evenly. “But I’m managing them.”

That didn’t really explain why he was staring at me like he wanted to eat me, but I felt bad that I’d snapped at him. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

His eyes glimmered, and I watched, awestruck, as his tongue dipped out to lick a drop of whiskey from his lower lip. “So fucking sweet,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than me.

He straightened slightly and took another drink. “Go,” he added quietly. “Keep working. I’ll . . . just be here.”

I hesitated for half a second, irritation tangling with concern and something far more unsettling before I gave a small nod and stepped away, letting the noise of the casino swallow me again.

It will pass.

That’s what I kept telling myself.

He was going to finish his drink, settle whatever storm he’d dragged in with him, and leave. And then I could do my job the way I always did, head down, smile on, heart locked tight behind my sternum.

But he didn’t leave. He stayed.

Every time I crossed my section, I felt his gaze . . . and it was getting under my skin.

I dropped drinks at a blackjack table and felt it between my shoulder blades. Took an order at the bar and felt it between my thighs. I laughed at something one of the regulars said and felt it then, too. I had never been more aware of someone in my entire life.

And finally, I’d had enough.

I finished my round, and set the tray down at my station, taking a steadying breath that did absolutely nothing. My nerves felt scraped raw, my skin too aware of itself, and my thoughts were looping in a way that made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

I spotted my floor manager near the pit and made my way over. “Hey,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Can I take a quick fifteen?”

“Of course.” He looked me over, his brows drawing together slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I answered automatically.

“You look . . . pale,” he said carefully. “If you need more than fifteen, take it. We’ve got coverage.”

I forced a small smile. “I’m fine. I just need a minute,” I murmured, already turning away.

There was no need to look back at Jagger as I headed off the casino floor. I could feel his attention following me the entire way.

CHAPTER 22

EDEN

Ipushed through the swinging door into the staff corridor and made my way to the women’s bathroom at the end of the hall. I needed some cold water and some space . . . something to drown out the way my skin still hummed from his stare.

I shoved the door open, breathing a sigh of relief that no one else was in here.

The mirror showed me exactly what I’d been hoping not to see . . . a woman falling apart. Grabbing a paper towel, I wet it and then dabbed at my neck, hoping I could cool myself off.

Get it together. He’s just a man with a staring problem. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before⁠—

The door opened behind me, and I gasped when I turned and saw Jagger filling the doorway, his broad frame cutting off most of the hallway light, and his eyes already locked on mine like he’d followed the thread of my pulse straight here.

He stepped inside, and the door drifted shut behind him.

Jagger kept his eyes on me as he turned the lock. The sound of it engaging was small, but it seemed to roar in my ears. My heart pounded so fiercely I felt it everywhere at once.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, his gaze holding mine in the reflection with the same unrelenting intensity he’d aimed at me all night—deep, consuming, as if I were the sole point keeping his world from spinning apart.

I turned slowly to face him. “You shouldn’t be in here,” I managed. My voice emerged softer than I intended, threaded with a tremor I couldn’t quite mask.

His gaze dipped to where I’d wetted my neck, and when his eyes returned to mine, they burned with something feral. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasped. “Every fucking day. Every fucking hour. Every fucking second.”

My eyes widened at his confession, and I was trembling as he stalked toward me with unhurried steps. I moved back until the cool porcelain edge of the sink pressed against me, hemming me in. Not that escape was particularly crossing my mind at the moment.

He didn’t stop until I could feel his heat, and there went the temporary relief the wet paper towel had given me. I was on fire, like a flame had started inside me, and it was slowly eating me up. I gasped, and there it was again: his scent. It wrapped around me, curling into my lungs. The same trace I’d woken up to all week. Only this wasn’t just a trace.

This was an assault against my hormones.

For a dizzy second, it felt less like coincidence and more like he’d been pumping it in through the vents to make an erotic version of Abercrombie.

My pulse jumped under his thumb as he settled it right over the frantic beat at my throat, pressing just enough to feel how wildly my heart raced for him.

“Beautiful,” he murmured as his other hand grazed my jaw and then continued its path downward, tracing the vulnerable line of my neck like he was mapping out every place he planned to claim.

I couldn’t look away from his eyes. This was what I’d meant earlier. Somehow he didn’t seem to be tainted by whatever else was thought of me.

“Every time I close my eyes, you’re there,” he said, and there was an ache in his voice . . . like that was painful. “I see you laughing at the bar. I see you walking past me with that little sway in your hips. I see you bent over a table wiping it down, ass up, and I have to grip the edge of my booth so hard I leave marks in the leather just to keep from dragging you out of here.”

My stomach clenched, and heat pulsed between my thighs.

He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. “And when I’m near you like this—close enough to touch, close enough to taste—and I can’t . . . Fuck, I feel like I’m dying. Slowly. Every second I’m not inside you is pure torture.”

“Jagger . . .”

“I lie awake replaying every look you’ve ever given me. Every time you bit your lip when you thought I wasn’t watching. Every time your breath caught when I walked too close. I play it on repeat until my hand’s wrapped around my cock and I’m coming so hard I see stars, and it still isn’t enough. It’s never fucking enough.”

His thumb continued its intoxicating stroke over my pulse. “I want to ruin you for anyone else. I want you to feel me every time you move tomorrow. I want you marked so deep that when you shower, when you sleep, when you fucking breathe, you still feel me there. I want to fill you up, so there’s no room for anyone else.”

No room for anyone else.

Ryan’s name rose in my mind like it had been summoned.

Of course that was what he meant.

My knees weakened, and I gripped his shirt tighter, steadying myself against the storm building inside me.

“You’re fucking killing me, Eden. Standing there flushed and dripping, trying so fucking hard to pretend you don’t want this just as bad as I do. I bet your perfect pussy is soaked, baby. You’re probably dripping down your thighs, soaking through those little panties . . . desperate for me to bend you over this sink and fuck you until you can’t walk. And I’m supposed to just walk away? I can’t. I fucking can’t.”

Oh my gosh.

Ryan’s face suddenly flashed in my head, the sight of his ashes scattering in the wind.

I shoved Jagger’s chest, an involuntary reaction to the guilt. He rocked back half a step, a brief flash of surprise crossing his dark eyes before his expression hardened again.

“Stop,” I cried. “You can’t say that shit. You can’t talk about ruining me, marking me, owning me—not right now. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.”

He went eerily still, and a sort of thrill skated through me because we were right on the edge of something that I knew would be irreversible for me.

One taste of Jagger . . . and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to recover.

“‘Wrong’?” The word came out strained and savage, like I’d just ripped something vital out of him.

“Yes. Wrong.” Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall yet.

“I just cremated my husband. I held his ashes in my hands, and I let him go . . . And that was days ago. And now I’m in here with you, dripping for you, aching for you, when I should be broken. When I should still be bleeding for him. This”—I gestured wildly between us—“this is betrayal. I’m betraying him. I’m betraying myself.”

Jagger’s jaw clenched, and his eyes searched mine, wild and wounded and furious all at once.

“Baby . . .” His voice sank into a murmur that caressed my skin, a promise hiding teeth, the kind that coaxed you closer while the bite waited just out of sight.

He stepped closer again, crowding me back against the sink. “We could never be wrong together.”

The words came out fierce and possessive, a growl he couldn’t hold back.

I shook my head, but it felt weak. “You don’t⁠—”

“I do.” He cut me off. “I do get it. I get that it hurts. I get that you’re drowning in guilt and grief and every fucked-up thing that comes after losing someone. But listen to me.”

His hand shot to my face, cupping my cheek hard enough to make me gasp as his thumb dug into the soft skin under my eye. “Ryan only ever hurt you. Disappointed you. Left you waiting, left you crying, left you wondering why you weren’t enough. Every time he promised he’d change, every time he swore he’d be better—he fucking failed you. Over and over. He broke pieces of you, and it’s my goal in life to glue them back together.”

My breath hitched, and I sobbed as fresh pain lanced through me at the reminder of just how sad my life had become these last few years.

The words helped with the guilt, though.

Jagger leaned in until his mouth was a breath from mine. “I would never do that to you.” His words came out like a vow carved in blood. “I’d burn the fucking world down before I let you feel small again. I’d cut out my own heart and hand it to you bleeding if it meant you never had to wonder if you were enough. I want to replace him. I want to erase every memory of his weak, disappointing hands on you. I want to fuck you so deep, so hard, so completely, that when you close your eyes, it’s my face you see. My name you scream. My cock you feel stretching you open until there’s no room left for ghosts.”

His forehead crashed against mine and his breath was ragged, his whole body trembling with the brutal effort it took to hold himself back.

“I’m going to get rid of him,” he promised. “He doesn’t deserve space in your head anymore. Not when I’m right here, ready to worship every part of you. Ready to own you. Protect you. Breed you. Ruin you in the best fucking way until you forget what pain even feels like.”

My chest heaved, and the tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over.

Jagger searched my face one last time, his eyes a battlefield where hunger clashed against a devotion so consuming it looked like it could destroy us both.

He slowly sank to his knees on the tile, gripping my hips in a way that I knew would leave marks I’d see tomorrow. For once I wanted to be marked by a man, though.

Jagger looked up at me, and the sight of this god on his knees for me stole what little air I had left.

“I’m not leaving,” he said in a wrecked voice. “Push me. Hate me. Cry on me. Use me to feel anything but the grief for one fucking second. But know this—” His fingers dug in harder. “I’d rather bleed out on this floor for you than stand anywhere else without you. I’d rather replace every memory he left in you with mine than let you keep carrying his failures.”

He fisted the hem of my skirt and yanked it up my thighs in one rough, impatient motion, bunching the fabric around my waist. Cool air kissed my soaked panties, and I gasped, trembling as the full weight of what was happening crashed over me.

He buried his mouth between my thighs, pressing hard against the soaked lace of my panties. His teeth scraped the thin fabric, and he inhaled me like my scent was the only thing keeping him sane. A deep, hungry growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating straight against my swollen clit and sending a fresh rush of slick heat flooding through me, making my pussy clench and throb with desperate need.

“Fuck,” he snarled against me. “You’re drenched, just like I thought. This pussy knows exactly who it belongs to.”

It was a truth that seared hotter than my shame—I’d wanted Jagger since the first night those dark eyes locked on me in the high roller room. I’d hated myself for every stolen fantasy, every time I’d made myself come, moaning his name while guilt choked me.

Ryan was the only man I’d ever slept with. Sex with him had been soft kisses and missionary under the covers, quick and sweet and over before I ever felt the edge of anything real. He’d never made me shake like this. Never made me ache so deep it hurt. Never looked at me like he’d die if he didn’t taste me right fucking now.

Jagger was nothing like that.

He hooked his fingers in the lace and tore it aside with a loud rip that echoed off the tiles before his mouth was on me again . . . this time on bare skin.

He dragged his tongue up my slit in one long, demanding stroke, tasting every inch of my shame and need. When he reached my clit, he sucked it between his lips, hard, flicking the swollen bud with devastating precision until my hips jerked against his mouth.

My head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud as a broken moan tore from my throat.

He devoured me, a man starved past reason. His tongue plunged inside me, and he fucked me with deep, relentless thrusts that had me gasping and clawing at the sink behind me. His tongue moved to my clit, latching on and sucking hard while he circled the swollen bud in tight, ruthless loops that made my knees buckle.

Two thick fingers shoved in deep without warning, curling and stroking that spot that only I’d ever been able to reach before. He fucked me with them in a fast, punishing rhythm, the wet, obscene sounds filling the small room, mixing with my frayed breaths and his low growls.

“So fucking tight,” he rasped against my flesh, the vibration ripping another whimper from me. “Soaked and clenching like you’ve been aching for this since the day we met. You’ve been touching this pretty cunt and thinking about my mouth on it while you mourned him, haven’t you? Whispering my name in the dark like a dirty little secret.”

I couldn’t lie; I couldn’t even try. My fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

Jagger sucked harder on my clit, and his fingers somehow drove deeper as his free hand gripped my ass and yanked me forward. I ground shamelessly against his face, riding his tongue like I was chasing the end of everything.

The first orgasm crashed into me, ripping through my veins until I was screaming his name. I was a woman possessed, writhing and screaming as I came apart on his tongue. He didn’t slow down for a second; he drank every pulse, lapped up every shudder, then kept going.

He pulled his fingers free only to spread me wider with both hands. His thumbs hooked into my ass cheeks and pulled me open as his tongue slid lower, circling my tight back entrance before pushing inside me slowly.

I jolted, a shocked gasp turning into a moan as he fucked my ass with his tongue, shallow thrusts that made my whole body light up with a wrong, perfect heat, a spark that immediately melted into something deeper. Something molten.

I had never—Ryan hadn’t even suggested it. I— Oh my gosh, I loved it.

“Jagger—fuck⁠—”

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice muffled against me. “Let me have every fucking hole. Let me taste how dirty you are for me.”

He moved back to my clit, sucking hard while two fingers plunged back into my pussy, stretching me . . . filling me. His thumb found my asshole, and he pressed in just enough to make me see stars—slow at first, then deeper, matching the rhythm of his fingers.

The second orgasm built even faster. My legs shook, and my nails dug into his scalp. I came again with a sob, harder this time, gushing against his mouth while he groaned like he was the one getting off.

He still didn’t stop.

Jagger stood suddenly, spinning me around so my palms slapped against the sink. My skirt was still hiked up, my panties torn and useless. He dropped back to his knees behind me, spreading me wide again.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered roughly. “Look at how fucking wrecked you are for me.”

I met my own eyes in the mirror; I was flushed and tear streaked . . . my pupils blown. Then his mouth was back, and his tongue was plunging into my pussy from behind as his finger worked my clit in tight circles. His other hand kept my ass spread, and his thumb pressed against that tight ring again, dipping inside just enough to make me whimper.

He ate me like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

The third orgasm built inside me, a silent explosion waiting to happen, swelling hotter and more urgent with every ruthless stroke of his tongue until my entire body trembled on the edge of complete surrender.

My knees gave out.

Jagger caught me with one arm banded around my waist, holding me up while his mouth never left me, his tongue lapping through every shudder and every gush. When it hit, my whole body seized, and once again I was screaming his name as my release dripped messily down my inner thighs.

I was still shaking, boneless and gasping, as he pulled away from my core and dragged his tongue down my legs, trying to get every last drop of my cum.

I turned back toward him and found him sitting back on his heels, his lips and chin glistening with me, his eyes dark and frantic, as if something inside him had snapped.

Jagger rose in one jerky motion, towering over me again as his chest heaved. His hands shook as he reached for his belt, undoing it before he shoved his pants and briefs down just low enough for his cock to spring free.

Holy hell.

What a cock.

I obviously didn’t have tons of experience in the field, but even a novice would be able to tell that Jagger’s dick was the eighth Wonder of the World.

Thick and long, with a silver barbell piercing glinting at the flushed head, it bobbed between us like a gorgeous monster, its veins standing out and the tip already leaking. My mouth went dry, and my core clenched again desperately, greedy despite the three orgasms he’d already torn out of me.

He didn’t speak; I wasn’t sure he could. His breathing was ragged, broken, like every inhale hurt. One hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, and he started stroking, his eyes locked on my face as if it was the only thing left in the world that could save him.

Jagger stepped closer, and his free hand fisted the already bunched neckline of my blouse and yanked it down. The fabric gave easily, but my bra was still in the way. Without hesitation, he hooked his fingers into the cups and pulled them down roughly, freeing my breasts completely to his gaze. My nipples were already tight and aching from my orgasms, and they only pebbled and flushed further. A low, animal sound ripped from his throat—half groan, half plea—the sound of a man who was splintering apart right in front of me.

He pressed in tighter, slotting his hips between my spread thighs. His cock brushed my soaked folds, and the metal barbell moved over my oversensitive clit . . . making me flinch and whimper.

To my dismay, he didn’t push inside. Instead he rocked his hips forward in shallow, teasing strokes, dragging the thick, pierced length of his cock through my soaked folds, letting the heavy head and cool metal barbell catch on my swollen clit with every slow glide. He coated himself in my slick, while his fist flew faster and faster along his shaft, stroking himself with rough, desperate pulls right in front of me.

His forehead dropped to mine, and his breath was hot and erratic against my lips.

A second later he reared back and angled his dick toward my breasts. Thick ropes of cum erupted across my chest in hot, messy pulses as he came. The first splashed high across the tops of my breasts, dripping immediately down the curves in slow, sticky trails. The second landed square on one nipple, while another streaked lower, painting the undersides, pooling in the valley between them. He kept stroking through it, hips jerking, milking every last drop until his cock twitched violently and a final thick bead rolled down his shaft.

I watched as if in a daze as cum slowly dripped from my nipple, and he didn’t let it go to waste as he leaned over and closed his mouth around my tip. His tongue swirled, and he sucked hard, drawing the peak deep into his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp and arch toward him.

Jagger licked every drop off the sensitive bud until it was clean and glistening only with his spit now. Then he straightened and proceeded to smear the rest of his mess with the head of his dick, dragging the pierced tip through his release as he spread it across my skin. Claiming. Branding.

His breathing was wrecked, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon, but his eyes never left the sight of his cum glistening on me.

“Mine,” he said hoarsely as he leaned in, and his lips brushed my ear. “You’re not going to shower tonight. Every time you breathe, you’ll feel me on your skin. Every time you look down, you’ll see what I did to you. Who owns you.”

His hand slid up, cupping one breast through the slick mess, and his thumb circled my nipple in lazy strokes. He pinched lightly—enough to make me whimper—then dragged his palm down my sternum, spreading his release farther like he couldn’t stand the thought of any part of me unmarked.

Jagger kissed me then, and it was everything filthy you could want in a kiss. I loved that he tasted like me . . . like us, and when he pulled back, his eyes still looked completely fucking obsessed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered as he tugged the stretched neckline of my blouse back up carefully, smoothing the fabric over my cum-streaked chest so it clung, damp and obscene, against my skin. The material was dark enough that the wet spots might pass for spilled drinks if no one looked too close. His fingers lingered there, pressing the fabric to my breasts, sealing his claim beneath it.

“Clean up,” he ordered quietly. “Go back to work. Smile for the customers. But know this, Eden—I’m watching. And the next time you come, it’s going to be on my cock.”

He unlocked the door with a soft click and slipped out, leaving only the faint trace of him and sex lingering in the stale bathroom air.

I stayed perched on the sink longer than I should have, trying to recover. His release had cooled beneath the fabric he’d so carefully smoothed back into place, sticky and intimate where it clung to my skin. Every shallow inhale pulled the damp material tighter across my nipples, sending small, traitorous sparks straight to my core.

Eventually, I forced myself to move. I slid off the sink edge on unsteady legs. My knees threatened to give out again, but I gripped the porcelain until my knuckles whitened, and I tried to pull myself together.

And I stared in the mirror again . . .

I was still the mess that had first come into the bathroom, falling apart . . . but in a very different way. My hair was tangled at my nape, strands plastered to my damp skin. My lips were swollen, and my cheeks were flushed in a deep, shameful rose color that refused to fade. As if those two things weren’t enough, my pupils were still blown wide, like I’d been drugged or fucked into oblivion.

I stared at the woman in the reflection and felt my stomach lurch.

What the hell did I just do?

I’d let Jagger drop to his knees in a staff bathroom and devour me until I screamed his name. I was covered in his release, my body still humming with aftershocks and my core still aching for more.

You’re such a fuckin’ whore.

This wasn’t grief seeking comfort. This was betrayal.

The dark thoughts crashed into me, and I had to work to push them away. To forget the Eden who had always tried to do the right thing.

For a second I saw myself the way other people would—a new widow, already tangled up with another man. Society had a script for women like me. Grieve quietly. Dress in black. Stay small. Stay loyal to a ghost.

I braced my hands on the edge of the sink and closed my eyes.

Ryan.

The name didn’t ache the way it should have. It thudded.

Because the truth was uglier than the guilt.

Ryan had drained me. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It had happened slowly, over years—crisis after crisis, broken promise after broken promise, nights spent waiting for the sound of the door, wondering what version of him would walk through it. Sober. High. Angry. Apologetic.

I had poured myself into him until there was nothing left. I had tried to be enough . . . tried to love him back to life . . . tried to hold us together with bare hands while everything cracked around me.

By the end, I’d felt like something had been siphoned out of me, leaving a thin, empty version behind.

And at the end of the day . . . I didn’t owe him my corpse. I didn’t owe the world a performance of purity just because it made them comfortable. My soul had almost died trying to live up to what I was supposed to be. The loyal wife. The patient one. The strong one. The girl who stayed.

I opened my eyes and met my reflection. I didn’t look wicked. I looked alive.

Flushed. Shaken. Awake in a way I hadn’t been in years.

Maybe what I’d just done was reckless. Maybe it was messy. Maybe it should just be a onetime thing because a man like Jagger would no doubt destroy what was left of my heart.

But at least it wouldn’t be the slow, suffocating erosion I’d survived before. And that had to mean something.

Despite what Jagger had ordered, I grabbed a paper towel, got it wet, and started wiping at his cum. The damp paper only seemed to smear it further, though, turning the mess into something even more obscene.

I gave up and instead tried to smooth my hair with my shaking fingers, tucking stray strands behind my ears and straightening the neckline as best I could. I had no idea where my panties had ended up—most likely with Jagger since they weren’t in here—but it meant that I had to go back out there with nothing beneath this skirt now but the memory of his tongue plunging into me, his fingers stretching me, and his thumb pressing into my ass while I came apart screaming.

This was going to be an experience.

I took one last breath, still tasting him on my tongue, still carrying his scent in my lungs, and pushed the door open.

As I walked, the noise of the floor rushed back in, and I stepped into it like I was stepping onto a stage, pasting on the same practiced smile I’d had on all night.

I had to pour drinks. Take orders. Pretend my legs weren’t still shaking, that my skin wasn’t painted with him beneath my clothes, that every shift of fabric didn’t remind me exactly what I’d let happen.

But at least I was doing it feeling alive . . .

CHAPTER 23

JAGGER

Sweat ran down my spine and soaked into the waistband of my shorts as I circled Cruz, the canvas scuffing under my bare feet. The underground gym smelled like rubber mats, leather polish, and the metallic trace of old blood. The lights overhead buzzed, throwing long shadows against the walls.

We were both shirtless, our chests slick and gleaming, our muscles pumped from the hour we’d already spent beating the shit out of each other. My knuckles ached under the wraps, but the burn was welcome—anything to drown out the noise in my head.

Eden hadn’t answered a single text all day. Not one. After last night—after I’d had her legs wrapped around my face, her screams echoing off the bathroom tiles, her body shaking through three orgasms while I drank down every drop of her—she was ghosting me like none of it had happened. Like I hadn’t marked her chest with my cum, hadn’t felt her pulse racing under my thumb as she came apart.

Cruz feinted left and drove a hook into my ribs. I took it without flinching and came back harder, snapping his head to the side with a clean right.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, stepping back. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Maybe,” I said, rolling my shoulders and stalking forward again.

She wasn’t allowed to act like nothing had happened. I’d felt her. Every reaction. Every tremor. She’d looked at me like I’d lit something up inside her that she didn’t even know was still alive.

And now she was pretending she hadn’t.

Cruz ducked my right hook and grinned like an asshole. “What’s got you so pissy? Eden still playing hard to get?”

I landed a solid jab to his ribs that made him grunt and back up a step. “Fuck off.”

He laughed and bounced on his toes, sweat flying off his pretty-boy hair. “It’s hard when I can smell the desperation from here. You look like a kicked puppy who just realized his favorite toy has teeth.”

Cruz feinted left, then snapped a quick combination that clipped my guard. “You’re swinging like a man who just discovered his dick shrank an inch,” he continued. “I’m assuming Eden finally revoked your imaginary boyfriend privileges, and now she’s ignoring you?”

I drove a sharp jab into his ribs. He grunted, but he was still smiling.

Snarling, I drove forward with a left hook that caught his shoulder. “She’s not ignoring me. She’s . . . processing.”

“‘Processing,’” he repeated in a voice thick with mockery. “Is that code for ‘she woke up and realized she should file a restraining order’?”

“Fuck you.”

He blocked my next punch, his grin spreading wider. “This is the same thing you were doing before you handled Sir Cock Head. Hesitating. Once again, you’re being too fucking soft. You let her walk out of that bathroom with your cum still drying on her tits, and you didn’t chain her to the nearest bed. Rookie fucking mistake.”

I swung harder, landing a clean shot to his side that made him hiss through his teeth. “Says the guy who thinks relationships are poison and the only commitment worth making is to a bottle of bourbon.”

He dodged my follow-up with a fluid twist. “That’s irrelevant. You should listen to my advice. You’re letting her breathe too much. That’s why she’s pulling away. Women like Eden? They need to feel owned. Not courted like some fairy-tale princess.”

“How would you know what she’s like?” I growled.

He ignored me and tried to break my nose instead. “You put the hole in her life. So stop pretending you’re not the one who gets to fill it.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” I told him, feeling every syllable he’d just said twist in my ribs.

“You know I’m so fucking right, though,” he said with a wink. “Now stop whining and listen to me. What you need is forced proximity, Thatcher. That’s how you break her walls. Get her kicked out of her apartment. Call in a favor—have one of our guys ‘discover’ a leak, black mold, structural bullshit, whatever gets the landlord to slap an eviction notice on her door by morning. She’ll have nowhere to go. Then you show up, her psychopath in shining armor, and you offer her a place to stay.

“Your place, obviously, just in case you didn’t understand that,” he drawled, shooting me a look like I was stupid.

I punched him in the side, and he groaned and rubbed his ribs.

“Continue,” I told him magnanimously.

He sighed and started circling me again. “Tell her it’s temporary and that you’re going to help her find something new. But we both know temporary becomes permanent when she’s sleeping in your bed and waking up to your mouth between her thighs every morning. We both know your bed is much better than where the two of you have been sleeping.”

I snarled and shoved him back. “You’ve been tracking me again.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Obviously.”

“You’re a stalker.”

He tilted his head. “Please. I’m quality control.”

“If you hacked her cameras,” I said quietly, stepping in close enough that he could feel it in his throat, “I will actually kill you.”

That wiped the smirk down a notch.

“Relax,” he said, his hands lifting slightly. “I’m not suicidal. Of course I’m not going to watch her. I track you,” he continued. “You’re the liability. You’re the one circling her building like a lovesick gargoyle.”

“A gargoyle?” I asked. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

He waved me away. “Seriously, Jags. She’s not ignoring you because she doesn’t want you. She’s ignoring you because she’s terrified of how much she does. So stop playing nice and go fucking take what’s already yours.”

Cruz wasn’t done. He suddenly lunged forward, catching me off guard with a takedown that drove his shoulder into my midsection. We hit the canvas hard, the impact jarring my spine.

We grappled, rolling for dominance. His arm snaked around my neck in a loose choke, his muscles straining as he tried to lock it in. Sweat made everything slick, our bodies sliding against each other in the scramble. I bridged my hips and flipped us, pinning him beneath me with my forearm braced across his chest as my knee dug into his side.

“I wrote you a poem to give to her since you suck at romance,” he grunted as he bucked hard to throw me off. “‘Roses are red, violets are blue, I killed your ex, now I’m obsessed with you.’ She’s going to love it.”

I laughed breathlessly, tightening my hold on his arm until his muscles trembled. “Fuck off,” I said, gritting my teeth as he reversed the position with a twist, flipping me onto my back again.

“Kiss him already!” Maddox called from nearby. I hadn’t even seen him come in. Cruz paused just long enough to wink at me, and I slammed my elbow into his throat just in case he got any ideas.

Cruz didn’t let up, mounting me with his knee on my chest and his forearm pressing down like he was trying to crush the air out of me. “Do it, Jagger. Use the guilt she’s carrying. Twist it. Make her see that dead guy was nothing compared to what you can give her. Own her grief. Own her body. Own every fucking thought until she’s addicted.”

I bucked, throwing him off balance, and we rolled again—sweat-slick skin sliding, breaths coming in harsh pants as we wrestled for the upper hand.

We ended up side by side on the canvas, both of us laughing through the exhaustion, our chests heaving as the adrenaline crashed. The fight was done—not because one of us tapped, but because that’s how they usually ended. Push each other to the edge, then pull back. The circle of trust . . . unbreakable, even when we were trying to break each other.

I sat up, peeling off my wraps, the gym spinning a little from the rush. “You’re a man among men, Cruzy.”

He clapped me on the shoulder, harder than necessary, because he hated that nickname. “Go get your girl, Thatcher. And hey—if she does realize what’s wrong with you and you end up shot, I’ll be sure to blare Taylor Swift at your funeral, as you have requested.”

I rolled my eyes but of course didn’t argue with him; that was in my funeral wishes.

Jumping out of the ring, I rubbed a towel over my face and let Cruz’s little eviction fantasy roll around in my head.

A leak. Mold. Structural damage.

Those were all way too temporary and way too reversible. If she thought there was even a chance she could go back, she would. She’d cling to that place out of spite alone. If I was going to do this, it needed to be final.

I ran through the list in my head as though I was planning a grocery run instead of arson. Gasoline. Something that would make it catch fast. Maybe a timer so I wouldn’t have to linger. Matches in case the first spark failed. Gloves. A dark hoodie—nothing memorable, nothing that would stick.

I’d swing by the stash at the warehouse on Fifth, load up what I needed, then head to her place.

I didn’t want her inconvenienced . . . I wanted her untethered.

She’d lose the apartment that was the last place that reminded her of him. When the fire took everything, she’d have nowhere to go but to me. She’d hate it, and I was sure she’d try to fight me. But this time, no matter what . . . there’d be no running.

I tossed the towel over my shoulder and nodded at Maddox. “Want to help me with something fun?” I asked as I nodded toward the locker room.

“Always,” he said with a smirk.

“Good boy,” I told him, and I snorted when he scowled.

Shooting a goodbye to Cruz, I turned and walked off, already planning . . .to make her world burn.

CHAPTER 24

EDEN

Sirens cut through the night air, echoing down the block like they did more often than not. Where I lived, there was always noise like that. You learned quickly not to react to every emergency that wasn’t yours.

I turned the corner and stopped dead.

Police cars lined the road in front of me, their lights flooding the street, painting everything in harsh red and blue. A fire truck dominated the curb, a thick hose stretching and snaking across the asphalt. A few yards away, an ambulance idled with its back doors open, EMTs moving briskly in and out. Knots of people were pressed together behind tape, murmuring and pointing at the scene.

It took a second for my brain to catch up that this was all happening in front of my apartment building.

My bag slipped down my arm as I broke into a run, the smell hitting me before anything else did. Smoke hung in the air, curling out of the open stairwell like the building itself was exhaling. I pushed through the edge of the crowd, my heart pounding as I stared at the firefighters moving up and down the stairs. One of them came down carrying something blackened and unrecognizable, cradled carefully in his arms. My stomach twisted violently.

“Hey,” I said as I grabbed the sleeve of another firefighter as he passed. “What happened? Is . . . is everyone okay?”

He slowed, turning toward me, his face streaked with sweat. “Yeah,” he said. “Everyone’s fine. No injuries.”

I nodded in relief at that news. “What happened?”

“I can’t comment on that, ma’am,” he replied. “The fire spread quickly, but we got it under control before it took the rest of the building with it. If this is your building, you got lucky.”

Lucky.

The word rang in my head like a cracked bell, all wrong, because lucky was the last thing I’d ever call myself . . . I immediately began to panic.

I swallowed. “Which apartment?” I whispered.

“What did you say?” he asked, leaning toward me.

I cleared my throat. “Which apartment had the fire?”

He hesitated, studying my face and starting to look concerned. Then he glanced down at his clipboard. “Unit Twelve.”

The words didn’t land at first. They hovered somewhere in front of me, shapeless and wrong, like they belonged to a different conversation. I stared at his mouth, waiting for it to rearrange into something that made sense.

Unit Twelve. My apartment.

“Hey—are you all right?” the firefighter asked, his voice closer now, urgency creeping in. Understanding dawned across his face a second later. “Unit Twelve is yours?”

He started to reach for me.

“I got her.” Jagger was suddenly there at my side, one arm sliding around me before I could even register how close I’d come to falling to the ground. “I’ve got her,” he repeated firmly as the firefighter paused, his gaze flicking between us with a brief, assessing look. He finally nodded once and stepped back, turning his attention toward the stairs.

My hands were shaking as I searched Jagger’s face like it might have answers. “I don’t understand,” I said, the words tumbling out unevenly. “How did this happen?”

“I heard someone saying your stove was on, and something sparked the gas,” he said.

I was shaking as I stared at him incredulously. “I didn’t even cook this morning. I didn’t eat anything. My stove shouldn’t have been on!”

His face tightened immediately, and his lips curled up in displeasure. “You didn’t eat?” he growled.

I shook my head, tears blurring everything. “No.”

His jaw flexed. “Zachary brought you food,” he said. “Did he not?”

“He did,” I said quickly, the words rushing out as panic clawed higher. “He brought food. I just— I got distracted. I never turned on the stove. That’s what I’m trying to say. I didn’t cook anything. I didn’t leave that stove on.” My voice broke at the end, the logic unraveling in my hands as I shook my head like that might make it make sense. None of it fit. None of it lined up.

“How did this happen?” I whispered.

Whatever fight I had left drained out of me all at once. I tipped forward, pressing into him without meaning to, my forehead hitting his chest as a sob tore free.

“Why do bad things keep happening to me?” I cried, the question ugly and helpless and unanswerable.

He didn’t respond, but his arms wrapped around me instantly, holding me together when I couldn’t manage it myself.

Jagger let me cry for a few minutes before I forced myself upright. I swiped at my face, embarrassed by the fact that once again . . . I was falling apart in front of him. “I need to see it,” I whispered, and he didn’t argue.

He kept one arm around me as we moved, guiding me past the tape, past the murmured voices and the flashing lights.

A firefighter stepped directly into our path at the base of the stairs, one gloved hand lifting. “I’m going to have to ask you to stay back. It’s not secure yet.”

Jagger shifted slightly in front of me so that the firefighter’s attention slid fully to him. “She lives here,” Jagger said calmly.

“I understand that, sir, but⁠—”

Jagger leaned in, close enough that I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

The firefighter’s expression changed almost instantly. The fight drained from his posture as his eyes flicked from Jagger to me and back again. For some reason the color had leached from his face. “Right,” he muttered, stepping aside. “Just—be careful.”

Jagger gave him a brief nod, and then we were moving again. I didn’t have the energy to ask Jagger what he’d said to him.

The stairwell smelled like smoke and wet ash, and each step I took felt disconnected. My apartment was still standing, technically. The door hung crooked on its hinges, paint blistered and peeling like old skin. The frame was scorched black, the numbers warped and barely readable. I stopped short and stared at it.

“It was really my apartment that burned,” I said stupidly, a part of me unable to comprehend it until this moment.

His hand tightened at my back as we stepped through the doorway.

Inside, everything was ruined.

The walls were charred and streaked with soot, and the ceiling was warped and sagged in multiple places. My couch sat soaked and misshapen, its fabric melted in spots, springs poking through like it had been flayed. My coffee table was split down the middle, one leg completely gone, the surface blistered and warped beyond recognition.

The kitchen was worse.

Blackened cabinets hung open, their contents spilled and burned. The stove was scorched, knobs melted into useless lumps. A pot lay on its side, unrecognizable, fused to the burner by heat. Everything smelled like loss and chemicals and . . . How was this happening to me?

“It’s all gone,” I whispered. “Everything I had was here.”

Jagger didn’t rush me. He stood solid at my side, his eyes moving over the damage with a focus that felt different than mine. While I saw pieces of my life reduced to wreckage, he seemed to be studying it.

I took a few more steps, moving through the debris, and stopped in what used to be my bedroom. The bed frame was twisted, and the mattress collapsed and blackened. My dresser was a skeleton of warped wood and half-melted handles. The closet door had burned clean through; my clothes reduced to ash and scraps clinging to metal hangers.

I doubled over, pressing my hands to my mouth like that might keep me sane.

Something caught my eye near the nightstand, half buried under soot and plaster. I crouched without thinking and reached for it. My fingers were trembling as they closed around a picture frame. The glass was gone, and the metal edges were curled and blistered and still slightly warm to the touch. I brushed at it with my sleeve, smearing ash instead of clearing it. It didn’t really matter, though; I knew it was a picture of Ryan and me.

Or what was left of us.

My own face was barely there, a pale oval beneath smoke and scorch marks. His was worse. The fire had eaten it almost entirely, leaving only the outline of his shoulder and the suggestion of a jaw. Whoever he’d been in that moment, whatever smile he’d worn when the picture was taken, it was gone now, erased so completely it felt intentional.

I stared at the blank space where his face should have been and laughed harshly. “I can’t even see him,” I whispered. “I can’t even remember what he looked like in this.”

My grip loosened, and the frame slipped from my fingers, clattering softly to the floor.

I pressed my palm to my chest in an effort to hold something in place. Why did it feel like the fire hadn’t just taken him from the picture? Why did it feel like it had reached inside me and blurred him there, too?

Jagger pulled me into his arms again. “Let’s go,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. “There’s nothing here for you anymore.”

The words settled in my chest with a finality I hadn’t prepared myself for. “No,” I gasped as my new reality hit me. “I can’t—I can’t go. I don’t have—” My chest tightened, each inhale shallow and useless, my vision tunneling as the room seemed to tilt again. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

I hadn’t even had a panic attack when I’d found out Ryan was dead, but this seemed to be pushing me over the edge.

“What am I supposed to do?” I cried. “I don’t have a place. I don’t have anyone. I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey,” he soothed as he guided my face to his chest. “Breathe with me.”

I tried, but my lungs were seizing up. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out everything else, and the edges of my vision continued to narrow, the room folding inward as shadows pressed in from both sides.

“Breathe,” Jagger said calmly. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. In through your nose. Slowly.”

I tried again, clinging to the rise and fall beneath my cheek, matching my breath to his when I could, missing it when I couldn’t. The black at the edges wavered and retreated by inches. My body still shook, panic clawing and refusing to let go, but his hands stayed steady, holding me together while the storm tore itself out of me.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hands firm at my back. “Stay with me.”

I tried, but my next inhale snagged halfway down. The ringing surged louder, swallowing his voice, and the shadows bled back in, sudden and thick.

My body folded inward again, refusing to obey no matter how desperately I begged it to.

“Eden,” Jagger said insistently. His hand tightened at my back. “Look at me.”

I couldn’t, though. The panic had taken over.

Jagger tipped my chin up, and then his mouth was on mine. The kiss wasn’t forceful or demanding . . . it was just present. A firm press that startled the spiral right out of me. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, the solid reality of him, the unmistakable here and now of it. My breath caught in shock instead of panic, and my lungs finally began to drag in air.

I gasped against his mouth, and he pulled back just enough to breathe with me, his lips still close, his nose brushing mine.

“There you go,” he said softly. “That’s it.”

The darkness at the edges of my vision thinned, retreating as the ringing in my ears dulled to a distant hum. I sagged against him, the fight draining out of my limbs all at once, leaving me shaky and spent and painfully aware of how close we were.

His forehead rested against mine, and we stared at each other. He didn’t kiss me again; he just stayed there, holding me together while my heartbeat found something like a normal rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t seem to stop embarrassing myself in front of you.”

He shook his head once, barely perceptible. “Don’t be,” he said. “You’re allowed to fall apart. I’ve got you.”

Before I could step away to gather whatever dignity I had left, his arms shifted, and suddenly I wasn’t standing anymore.

Jagger scooped me up like I weighed nothing, one arm under my knees, the other locked firmly around my back, holding me close against his chest. I grabbed on to his suit coat as the ruined room tilted out of focus.

“Hey—” I started weakly.

“Like I said . . . I’ve got you,” he said with a wink as he turned toward the doorway. His tone left no space for argument.

Smoke-stained walls slid past as he carried me out, my destroyed life receding behind us in charred fragments and unanswered questions.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I whispered. “I don’t have a place. I don’t have⁠—”

“Yes, you do,” he interrupted, not slowing his stride at all. He glanced down at me briefly. “You’re going home.”

I blinked at him, exhausted and confused. “What?”

“With me,” he said simply.

His words were too big to fully process. Home. With him. I should have argued or at least asked questions. I should have been afraid of how easily he’d decided this for me.

But my body was still trembling, my heart still sore and bleeding, and he was warm and solid and carrying me away from the wreckage without hesitation. I closed my eyes against his chest as the sounds of the fire scene faded behind us.

I didn’t know what waited for me next.

I only knew I was leaving everything I had behind.

And I was doing it in his arms.

CHAPTER 25

EDEN

The car ride passed in a blur I barely registered.

I sat in the back seat beside him, my hands folded uselessly in my lap as I stared out the window as the city slid by in streaks of light and shadow. I was aware of motion, of turns, of the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to Zachary, but none of it seemed connected to me. My body had gone strangely quiet, like it had shut a door somewhere deep inside and locked it.

The car dipped downward suddenly, the tires humming as we descended a ramp. Concrete walls replaced the Vegas skyline, and fluorescent lights shone overhead as we rolled into a private underground garage.

I frowned faintly as I noticed the familiar black-and-gold signage on the columns. We were at Paradise.

“Why are we here?” I asked, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.

Jagger glanced at me like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I live here.”

I stared at him. “At the casino?” I clarified.

He pushed his door open, stepping out with unhurried ease. “Top floors.”

“That’s . . . convenient,” I said slowly, stepping out after him, “considering I work here.”

He turned and grinned at me over his shoulder, holding out his hand for me to take. “Very,” he said . . . and then he winked.

What was happening didn’t fully register until we were standing in a fancy elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft, decisive sound, sealing us inside, and I stared at the floor indicator as it lit up and began its steady climb, the numbers ticking higher than I’d ever been before.

I was painfully aware of him beside me . . . of the way his shoulder brushed mine when the elevator shifted. Of the scent of him that had somehow survived the smoke and ash of my apartment. My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored wall. I was pale and drawn, and my eyes looked too big in my face.

This was real. I was going to his fancy apartment carrying nothing with me but the clothes I was wearing.

“What am I doing?” I whispered to myself.

Jagger glanced down at me. “You’re trusting me,” he said softly. “And I plan on earning that . . . very thoroughly.”

My pulse stuttered. “I⁠—”

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open, and whatever I’d been about to say completely evaporated from my tongue.

Wow. So people actually lived like this.

The foyer opened straight into the main living space—no hallway, no transition, just immediate access. The floor was dark marble, veined with gold that caught the low lighting and threw it back in soft shimmers. The walls were charcoal gray, and the ceiling was at least twenty feet tall. A massive chandelier hung above us, modern, but not fussy, with thousands of thin crystal rods suspended in a slow spiral, catching every movement and scattering light like falling stars.

Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the entire west wall, and Vegas sprawled below. The Strip looked almost close enough to touch, neon bleeding up into the glass. The view was obscene. There was no need for curtains. We were high enough that no one could see in.

“Welcome home,” Jagger murmured, and I tore my eyes away from the perfect penthouse to see that he was staring at me with an amused, knowing grin on his lips.

“I—” My words didn’t finish forming. I just stood there, gaping like this was a trick, like someone was about to tell me I’d walked into the wrong place.

He stepped out of the elevator and then looked back at me expectantly. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

As we walked through the nicest home I’d ever seen, I couldn’t help but think of the trailer I’d grown up in.

Thin walls that shook every time someone moved. Linoleum floors that squeaked every time you stepped. A kitchen so small you had to choose between opening the fridge or the oven. The electrical wiring had been all messed up, and the lights had gone out if you had more than one thing plugged in at a time.

And then, of course, I thought about the apartment next . . . the one I’d convinced myself was a step up.

Peeling paint and matted, worn carpet. Shower tiles that stayed stained no matter how many times I’d scrubbed them. Appliances in the kitchen from the 1990s. Furniture that I’d found at Goodwill or on the curb about to be thrown out.

All that time, people were living like this.

Jagger led me past a sunken living area with a black leather sectional so deep and wide it looked like it could swallow a small family. Low glass tables reflected the chandelier light, and a massive stone fireplace dominated the opposite wall. Above it was a single abstract painting in blacks and silvers.

I thought maybe I’d see a stain on the couch or a thread pulled loose somewhere . . . something that would make it feel real. But there wasn’t anything but perfection.

I stopped walking when we got to the kitchen.

If I could even call it that. It looked more like a room a Pinterest board used for pictures.

It was all marble and metal and shine—so much of it my eyes didn’t know where to land. The counters gleamed, and the appliances looked less like things you cooked with and more like machines you needed training to operate.

I had the sudden, absurd thought that if I touched the wrong button, an alarm might go off or a man in a suit would appear to scold me.

My apartment’s counter space was so scarce I’d had to put a plate over the tiny sink to have room to prep food. You could probably prep enough food on these counters and the giant island to feed an entire banquet hall.

Crazy.

My chest tightened as we kept moving, past more rooms, each one nicer than the last, each one seeming to be openly mocking every place I’d ever called home. I felt even more embarrassed now, knowing Jagger had set foot in my place when this was where he lived.

“I can’t stay here,” I suddenly squeaked.

Jagger had been one step ahead of me, and he stopped and turned, his brows lifting slightly. “Why not?”

I gestured helplessly around us because it should have been obvious. “This is . . . too nice.”

The admission felt small and ridiculous and painfully honest all at once.

His expression softened into understanding. “This,” he said evenly, sweeping a hand around, “is exactly where you belong.”

I blinked at him.

“In fact—I can’t imagine you belonging anywhere else,” he purred, like this wasn’t flattery but a fact he’d already decided.

I blushed because it was too much. His words, the conviction behind them . . . how he was looking at me. I looked down, needing something else to focus on besides his face, and belatedly realized I was still holding his hand. I’d been doing it the entire time.

I swallowed, my chest tight with things I didn’t have names for yet, and told myself not to read into it. Easier said than done.

He glanced at his watch, his tongue clicking once against his teeth. “I’m late.”

I frowned. “For what?”

“Feeding you,” he said almost angrily, as if he’d committed a grievous sin. “Come on.”

“I think this is another instance where I’ve lost my appetite,” I told him.

He shot me an amused look. “Everyone has an appetite for Mrs. Nesbitt’s food.”

I let him guide me back toward the kitchen island, and the marble was cool beneath my palms as he nudged me onto one of the tall stools. “Who’s Mrs. Nesbitt?” I asked.

“My housekeeper and chef, remember,” he said casually, like that was a normal thing to have. “She’s the one who’s been making you breakfast most days.”

I nodded even though I was sure he hadn’t said those exact words. I’d thought he’d been getting fancy takeout.

“Cruz is constantly trying to steal her from me. He tries to bribe her with promises of a better kitchen.”

“Someone has a better kitchen than this?” I said, unable to imagine it.

Jagger scoffed. “Cruz prides himself on being fancy. He needs something to go with his burgundy dinner jacket.” There was clear derision in his voice, and even though I didn’t understand half the things he was saying right now, his clear exasperation was pretty funny.

“Who exactly is Cruz?” I asked.

He paused for a second, his hand resting on a cabinet. Then he looked back at me with a regretful expression. “My best friend, unfortunately, who, if I have my way, you won’t meet for a very long time.”

Heat crept up my neck. I glanced around the kitchen again and felt painfully aware of the smoke still clinging to my clothes . . . of the mascara smeared under my eyes from all my tears . . . of the way my shoes were cheap and scuffed against the polished stone.

Of course he wouldn’t want me to meet his best friend.

Jagger was still staring at me, and he frowned like he could see right through me. “Whatever you’re thinking, get it out of your head,” he said, and there was a sexy little growl in his voice. “Cruz is a lot for anyone. He’ll probably flirt with you, and then I’ll have to kill him. Which is unfortunate because we’ve been best friends for a long time. I don’t like sharing my favorite things, though, so if he dies, he dies.”

There were a lot of things to unpack in those statements, and he was obviously kidding about most of it . . . but calling me one of his “favorite things” was definitely doing something to my insides.

Jagger smiled like he knew exactly what he’d done before turning back to the cabinets.

Except they weren’t cabinets.

One seamless matte-black panel gave beneath his hand, and the refrigerator revealed itself—fully integrated, the doors camouflaged so perfectly into the cabinetry that I hadn’t even clocked it as an appliance.

Rich people.

Jagger pulled out some black containers and then reheated the food in a microwave embedded in the island. A few minutes later delicious smells were filling the kitchen, and my stomach actually growled. Apparently it had an appetite for private chef food . . . Who knew?

I watched him begin to plate everything.

“Jagger,” I started carefully.

He didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“I can’t just . . . stay here.”

He glanced up from the food, looking confused.

“I mean,” I rushed, “I will. For a little bit. Until I figure things out. But I need to pay you something.”

His expression didn’t change.

“I know I can’t afford anything close to what this costs,” I added, gesturing vaguely at the marble, the hidden appliances, the entire existence of this place. “But I can give you everything I make at the casino. It’s your money anyway, technically, since you own Paradise. And I’ll pick up more shifts. And I can go back to the coffeehouse and beg them to give me my job back, too, so⁠—”

“The coffee shop?” he cut in.

“Yes. I can⁠—”

“It’s closed.”

I blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, reaching for another container. “It either blew up or got closed for mold or something. I can’t remember the details. I just heard about it the other day.”

I stared at him.

“‘Blew up’?” I repeated faintly.

“Yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Old wiring, maybe? Structural issues? Those places are disasters waiting to happen. It’s lucky you got out of there so nothing happened to you.”

I swallowed. “I can’t believe it. I mean, it must have happened literally right after they fired me. I—” Shaking my head, I frowned.

“Regardless,” he continued smoothly, setting a fork down in front of me, “you don’t need to worry about running back there. They didn’t deserve you in the first place.”

I bit down on my lip.

“I still want to pay you,” I said softly.

“Absolutely not, and now that that’s settled, let’s move to the celebration part of the evening.” Jagger reached into a chilled drawer and lifted out a bottle.

I was going to argue some more, but then my gaze snagged on the label, and my eyes widened. Now I had something else to argue about because, oh my gosh. “Oh. No. Absolutely not.”

He glanced at me, amused. “What?”

“That’s expensive,” I said quickly. “I know that label. All the high rollers order that . . . and only the high rollers. You don’t open that on a random weeknight. And you definitely don’t waste it on someone like me.”

He popped the cork with an easy twist. The soft sound echoed in the too-pretty kitchen. “Oops,” he murmured.

I had a flashback of when he’d put a knife in someone’s hand and said something similar. I’d kind of forgotten about that.

But I guess I had an excuse with everything that had happened since then.

Like my husband dying.

I groaned, heat creeping up my neck again. “I would have been fine with water. Or . . . tap water. I go perfectly well with tap water.”

Jagger practically threw the bottle down and stalked toward me. One second he was on the other side of the island, the next he was in front of me, his hand bracketing my jaw and tipping my face up until I had no choice but to look at him. “Don’t,” he growled, “ever talk about yourself like that again.”

My breath stuttered.

“Not in my presence,” he continued, his eyes locked on mine. “Not in anyone’s presence. You don’t get to decide you’re less than because the world treated you that way. Do you understand?”

I gaped at his intensity, something electric skittering down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. And then, because I was overwhelmed and half hysterical and apparently had no sense of self-preservation left, I blurted, “Yes, Daddy.”

Jagger didn’t look shocked at all by my words. If anything, they seemed to affect him, judging by the way his eyes darkened, suddenly glittering with something that looked very close to satisfaction. A smug smile touched his mouth, and then I was remembering exactly what those lips could do and exactly how good they could do it.

I was also recalling that we hadn’t talked about what had happened in the staff bathroom yet. Maybe that was a good thing, though . . . there was only so much I could handle in one day.

“Eden,” he murmured. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m going to start thinking everything you do is intentional.”

Scratch that . . . we really needed to talk about what happened.

Jagger released me and calmly walked back to the champagne bottle as if he hadn’t just rewired my nervous system with a few sentences and a look. He lifted it and began pouring; the pale gold bubbled into a flute, rising in a steady stream.

When it was full, he set the bottle down and picked up the glass by the stem. He walked back over and set it in front of me. “Drink your champagne,” he said lightly. “And don’t insult yourself while you do it.”

His smile was easy again. “Another argument in my favor, by the way . . . If I serve Mrs. Nesbitt’s food without the right beverage, she’ll never forgive me. She’ll pack up her knives, march straight to Cruz’s kitchen, and cook for him out of spite.”

Despite myself, a shaky laugh slipped out. “That bad?”

“Worse,” he said solemnly. “She’d make it a point to send me pictures of the meals. Captioned. I couldn’t live with that.”

My hands were still shaking when I lifted the glass, but the tension in my chest eased just a fraction. The first sip was cool and surprisingly smooth. Fine bubbles dissolved softly against my tongue instead of stinging, bright and crisp at first, then mellowing into something faintly sweet.

My eyes widened, and I took another sip. No wonder rich people drank this. It was delicious.

Jagger thankfully didn’t comment on the mini orgasm I was having over the champagne when he set a plate in front of me like it was a ceremonial offering.

I was drooling as I stared down at it, my appetite fully restored. Sliced pieces of roasted chicken were lying on a bed of buttery mashed potatoes so smooth they looked whipped, not mashed, and a glossy sauce pooled around the edges with flecks of thyme and black pepper. On the side, carrots had been roasted until they’d caramelized, and they’d been finished with something citrusy that cut through the richness just by smell alone.

I stared at it, overwhelmed. “I can’t believe you get to eat like this every day.”

He folded his arms and smirked. “Eat.”

I glanced up at him. “Bossy.”

“Yes,” he agreed easily.

I rolled my eyes, picked up my fork, took a bite . . . and then literally moaned. Freezing mid-chew, I closed my eyes, hoping that might save me, because the sound I’d just made had been obscene.

This chicken deserved obscene, though.

Whoever Mrs. Nesbitt was, somehow she’d been able to hit every single one of my pleasure centers at once.

“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, completely undone.

The sound that came from him wasn’t a laugh. It was strangled. Like it had been ripped out of him against his will.

My eyes flew open.

Jagger was gripping the edge of the counter with both hands, his shoulders tense as though he was holding himself in place by sheer force. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking there, and his expression was twisted into something between pain and restraint. For a second, he didn’t look smug or amused or in control.

He looked wrecked.

My fork hovered midair. “What— Are you okay?”

He dragged in a slow breath through his nose, his eyes flicking to mine and then away again like looking at me was making it worse. “You can’t,” he said tightly, “make sounds like that.”

At this rate, my face was going to burn off from how much I was blushing. I wasn’t sure that I could actually survive staying here. “It was just . . . the food.”

He let out another breath, harsher this time, and straightened. “I need a minute,” he said in a clipped voice before he turned and stalked off down the hall.

I stared after him, my fork still suspended in the air.

Well. That was dramatic. I looked down and stared longingly at my food. I should probably wait for him, right?

I waited a minute, and then another. And when he didn’t come back . . . I resumed eating. There was no universe in which I was choosing unresolved sexual tension over this food.

“Oh my gosh,” I murmured as I savored another bite, this time with zero shame since he wasn’t in the room.

Mrs. Nesbitt was my new favorite person.

***

Jagger

She was going to kill me.

Not with a knife or a gun. With fucking chewing. With that soft, distracted hum she made just because something tasted good.

I barely made it to the bathroom.

Locking the door, I braced my hands on the sink and stared at my reflection, hoping it might talk me out of this. It did not. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the fact that a woman eating chicken, potatoes, and carrots could undo me faster than bare skin ever had.

I shoved my hand down my pants, wrapped my fist around my shaft, and stroked myself roughly. The piercing caught on my palm, sending a spike of pleasure straight through me. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep quiet, my eyes squeezed shut as I pictured her mouth instead of my hand. Those full lips stretched around me, her tongue swirling over the head, taking me deep until her throat strained and her eyes watered.

I was pulling so hard on my dick that it was a testament to the human body that I didn’t rip it right off. The wet sound of my own precum slicking the way filled the bathroom. My balls drew up tight, the pressure building so fast I couldn’t slow down even if I wanted to.

I came in under a minute, pulses of cum spilling over my knuckles, dripping down my fingers, and soaking the counter in front of me. My hips jerked forward into my fist, a choked groan slipping out before I could stop it.

When it was over, all I could do was shake my head and laugh.

Get it together, asshole.

I washed my hands, took one last steadying breath that did absolutely nothing, and went back to the kitchen. Which turned out to be a mistake because she’d moved on to dessert.

Mrs. Nesbitt’s cheesecake sat in front of her, already half demolished. It was one of the best desserts that she made, and I stared in pained agony as Eden took a bite, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

Fucking hell . . . I was hard again. Instantly. As if my body had learned nothing from the last time.

She glanced up at me with wide, innocent eyes and smiled like this was a normal evening. Like she wasn’t actively wrecking me with dairy and audacity.

“You’re back,” she said sweetly.

I leaned a hip against the counter and nodded, folding my arms across my chest in an attempt to shield myself from the little sounds she was making. The way her lips closed around the fork. The tiny moan of pleasure when the cheesecake hit her tongue. The slow slide of her throat as she swallowed.

I told myself to stay where I was.

I’d just set her apartment on fire. She was vulnerable. We had the rest of our lives to sate my hunger.

Unfortunately for her, I was unable to listen to myself.

Eden took another bite, and a smear of cheesecake caught at the corner of her mouth . . . once again that was it.

I pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen in two strides, the decision already made somewhere below my brain. She barely had time to look up before I was there, one hand braced on the back of her chair, the other gripping the edge of the table.

Her eyes widened. “What are you⁠—”

I didn’t answer with words.

I reached down, fisted the waistband of her leggings, and ripped them apart in one tug. The fabric tore along the seams with a loud, satisfying sound, splitting open from hip to hip. She gasped, her thighs parting instinctively as cool air hit her bare skin.

I didn’t give her time to react.

I grabbed the half-eaten slice of cheesecake from her plate and smashed it between her legs.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her hips jerking at the contact. The cold cream smeared across her folds, coating her clit, and dripping down her inner thighs. I rubbed it in slow circles, watching her face—watching her eyes flutter shut, her mouth fall open, her chest rise and fall in quick, uneven bursts.

Then I dropped to my knees.

My hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, and I leaned in.

My tongue slid through the mess I’d made, sweet cheesecake mixed with her own slick heat, the taste of her and sugar exploding on my tongue. I licked her clean, slow at first, savoring every inch, then faster, hungrier, sucking her clit between my lips and flicking it with the tip of my tongue until her hips bucked against my face.

She cried out brokenly, and she fisted my hair, pulling me closer.

I devoured her.

I ate the cheesecake off her like it was the only thing keeping me alive, licking and sucking until she was trembling, her thighs shaking around my head, and her moans turning into sobs.

“Jagger!”

I didn’t stop. I sucked harder. Thrust my tongue deeper. Rubbed her clit faster.

She shattered, and her scream echoed off the kitchen walls, her body convulsing, pussy pulsing against my mouth as she came hard, gushing over my tongue in hot, sweet waves. I drank every drop of her release mixed with the remnants of cheesecake, groaning into her.

I pulled back just enough to catch her expression. Her eyes were wide and glassy as she stared down at me in shock.

“You had some on your lip,” I rasped, making it sound as reasonable as possible.

She made a cute gasping noise as she continued to stare at me as I got up off the floor and dragged a hand through my hair, very much aware of how quickly this had escalated. My plan had been to give her at least twenty-four hours before I’d jumped her.

Obviously that hadn’t gone well.

I’d also promised that my dick was going to be the next thing to give her an orgasm . . . but I didn’t have any regrets.

Eden swallowed and blinked, then cleared her throat like she was about to negotiate a ceasefire instead of recovering from being eaten out in my kitchen. She pulled down on her shirt to try to hide the gaping hole in her leggings, but she wasn’t very successful. I made sure I was standing where I could look right at her pussy while we talked.

Hey . . . at least that had happened in my house instead of a staff bathroom this time. This seemed way more appropriate. And it had involved cheesecake. I couldn’t think of anything to complain about.

“I think we need some rules,” she said after a full minute of us just staring at each other. “At least for tonight. While I’m here.”

I let out a quiet huff, more in amusement than agreement. “I’m listening,” I said, because this conversation felt like it could be fun.

Her eyes widened again, startled that I played along, but she rallied and lifted her chin. She was so brave and adorable and doomed.

“Okay,” she said, taking another steadying breath. “Rule one. No more touching.”

“No,” I replied instantly, without even the courtesy of pretending to consider it.

She stared at me. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I didn’t need to,” I said dryly. “Next rule.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “Minimal touching . . . at least while I’m living here and depending on you. So it’s not weird.”

“Still no.”

“Every other day touching?” she offered, clearly bargaining with the universe now.

“Also no.”

She groaned softly and slumped back in her chair. “You’re terrible at rules.”

“I’m excellent at rules,” I said. “I’ve just never seen much need for them. And the ones you’re proposing?” I tipped my head and exaggeratedly licked my lips so she knew I was tasting her cum as I did it. “They’re bad.”

She made a face at me. An indignant one. Then she inhaled, clearly regrouping, and stared up at the ceiling like the answers might be written there.

“Okay,” she said slowly, thinking out loud now. “Fine. New rules. How about . . . no food sharing? That seems reasonable. I should at least be paying for my food, and Mrs. Nesbitt’s has got to be way out of my price range.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That one has already been violated . . . in multiple ways. So obviously I’m rejecting it. I’m actually looking forward to sharing food again. Immediately, as a matter of fact.”

Her eyes flicked to my mouth and then away again, and she blushed. “This is impossible.”

I leaned down, bracing my hands on either side of her chair, crowding her space just enough to be unbearable.

“Welcome to my world,” I murmured, already knowing she wasn’t done trying to put space between us and that I was going to enjoy every second of rejecting it.

She opened her mouth to argue again, to drag another doomed rule into existence, but instead a yawn slipped out of her, and her shoulders sagged as if the day had finally caught up with her all at once.

Of course she was tired. Anyone would be, after the kind of day she’d had. Most of her bad day was my fault, of course, but I was willing to bet that all would be forgotten once she saw what life was like sleeping on my mattress instead of the pile of iron springs, aka torture devices, she was used to.

Let it be stated for the record that there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for this girl. My dick was once again so hard and desperate to get inside her that this time, I might really rip it off trying to get relief later.

“Hey,” I said, forcing my voice into something soothing instead of the unhinged, feral version of me that was trying to get out. “You’ve had a long day.”

Eden’s eyes softened, and she leaned toward me before she caught herself and straightened. “Yeah. I have.”

I held out a hand, keeping my eyes off her vagina like the gentleman I could sometimes be. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

She eyed me like I’d just suggested a felony. “Just my room, right,” she clarified, looking suspicious.

I nodded, all innocence and Scout’s honor. “Of course. Your room. Who else’s would it be?”

That earned me a narrow look that said she didn’t believe me for a second, but she stood anyway and let me lead her out of the kitchen.

We moved down the hall together, her steps slow as she continued to take it all in. I stopped at a door and pushed it open.

Her mouth dropped open as she stepped inside, and yeah . . . I got it. The room was large and unmistakably expensive, a space a very popular designer had planned down to the inch. Dark hardwood floors gleamed under low, recessed lighting. The bed dominated the far wall, oversized with a padded headboard in charcoal fabric, with crisp white sheets tucked so tight they looked like they’d never been slept in. A reading chair by the window was upholstered in soft leather, paired with a small side table and a lamp that cast a warm, controlled glow instead of harsh light. Heavy curtains framed the bulletproof glass, because although it was unlikely someone would be able to get up to the penthouse windows . . . you could never be too careful.

“This is . . .” she started, then trailed off.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching her reaction with something like satisfaction. “Nice?”

She nodded slowly, still turning in a small circle as she took everything in. “Yeah, really nice,” she whispered.

“The bathroom’s through there,” I said, nodding toward the door off to the side. “You can borrow one of my shirts to sleep in. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping.”

Eden turned back to me, her eyes sharp despite the yawn she tried to hide. “There are two things wrong with that sentence.”

I lifted a brow, amused. “Are there?”

“One,” she said, ticking it off, “I can sleep in what I’m wearing. Two, I can buy my own clothes.”

I stared at her incredulously for a second and then dramatically dragged my gaze to where she was still trying to cover her delicious pussy with her shirt. “You have a hole in your leggings, and they’re covered in cheesecake and cum. I think you should use my shirt.”

I went into my closet and came back out holding a soft black T-shirt.

It hit her then. She looked at the shirt. Then the bed. Then the chair. Then the windows. Her gaze snapped back to me, slow realization dawning as everything clicked into place.

“This is your bedroom,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She opened her mouth, clearly gearing up to argue, to protest, to list reasons this was a terrible idea.

I stepped close before she could build momentum, lifted a finger, and gently pressed it to her lips. Just enough to quiet her and make her freeze. “Sleep,” I murmured as I leaned in and kissed her, much softer than I wanted. I tucked the shirt into her hands before reluctantly pulling away.

I stepped back and left the room, knowing if I stayed for another second . . . I wouldn’t.

I watched her padding around my bedroom on my iPad, her hair wet from her shower and my shirt hanging off her shoulder sexily in a way that would have sold a billion of them if I’d ever allowed the company to use it for an ad. I leaned back on the couch, my beer untouched, and my eyes locked on the screen.

Making sure there were cameras installed in my room before she got here had been the idea of a century.

My phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again. And again.

I sighed and picked it up.

Gage: Did you seriously burn down her apartment today?

I smiled.

Me: Why? Impressed?

Gage: I mean, maybe a little.

Cruz: You can thank me for the idea later with flowers, Jags. I prefer the black ones.

Me: You know Daniels likes black flowers, too. You have much more in common than you think.

Lawson: Lincoln Daniels?

Cruz: Why are we talking about him again?

Me: Aww. Cruzy’s jealous.

Cruz: middle finger

Maddox: By “did you seriously burn down her apartment today,” did you mean “thank you, Maddox, for your elite fire-starting services”?

Maddox: You can thank me with Dallas Knights tickets, by the way. Not flowers. Because that’s fucking weird.

Lawson: Before Cruz murders Maddox, can we circle back to the part where no one invited me?

Cruz was being oddly quiet considering Maddox’s shit-talking. Hopefully, he wasn’t actually murdering him. I needed Maddox’s burrito-procuring skills.

And I guess his fire-starting skills as well.

Gage: Invited you to what? The bonfire? Is that a real question?

Lawson: Yes. How come no one ever asks me to burn down buildings with them? Or hit people with my car?

Lawson: I have a very nice car. You assholes know that. I definitely could have done the job better than Zachary.

Maddox: Don’t worry, boys. That wasn’t a real question.

I glanced at my iPad screen. Eden was standing beside the bed, staring around with a surprised look on her face, probably questioning how she’d gotten here.

My phone buzzed again, reminding me there was still an inane conversation happening.

Gage: Not sure hacking the thermostat would have helped in this situation, Lawson.

I smirked. Gage was brave talking like that to him. Or stupid. Maybe we’d go with that.

There was a long pause in the chat.

Lawson: Interesting.

Maddox: What does that mean?

Lawson: Nothing. Just running a quick diagnostic.

Gage: On what?

Lawson: Maddox, thanks for your very generous contribution.

Maddox: What?

A minute passed, and I was grinning like an idiot as I went back and forth between watching Eden and waiting to hear what Lawson just did.

Maddox: WHY IS THERE A MILLION DOLLARS MISSING FROM MY ACCOUNT?

I started laughing so hard I had to cover my mouth so Eden wouldn’t hear me.

Cruz: face with tears of joy

Nice of Cruz to pop back in for this. He was probably at Lawson’s right now, plotting revenge with him.

But also, this was why I didn’t mess with Lawson.

Gage: What just happened?

Maddox: LAWSON.

Lawson: Relax. It’s in escrow. Technically.

Maddox: YOU PUT MY MONEY IN ESCROW?

Lawson: I’m just showing you how good I can contribute. I’m contributing.

Maddox: I SWEAR TO FUCKING⁠—

Gage: Why did I just get a secure notification from Bureau IT saying my credentials attempted to log in from Belarus?

Gage: LAWSON!

Lawson: Oh calm down. It’s a spoofed ping. Your clearance is fine. I just rerouted your IP through six countries to make a point.

Gage: YOU CANNOT “MAKE A POINT” WITH MY FEDERAL CLEARANCE.

Cruz: I love this chat.

Maddox: PUT MY MONEY BACK.

Lawson: Apologize for the thermostat comment.

Gage: I APOLOGIZE.

Me: Eden’s settling in fine just in case any of you were wondering.

Maddox: I just lost a million dollars, Thatcher. Literally no one is fucking wondering.

Me: What a whiner. Things must be bad when you aren’t stalking me.

Cruz: Don’t worry. I’m still stalking you, Jagger.

I scoffed and took a sip of beer, covering up the camera on my iPad with my finger…just in case.

On the screen, Eden hovered beside my bed like it might reject her.

She lowered herself carefully at first, clearly bracing for the familiar assault of cheap springs. Instead, the mattress adjusted under her, cradling instead of jabbing. She went still for a second, as if she didn’t trust it. Then she shifted experimentally.

Her whole body relaxed in stages—shoulders first, then her hips, then that constant tension she carried in her spine just . . . let go. She rolled onto her back, then her side, testing it, and when the mattress followed her movements as though it had been engineered specifically for her, a disbelieving smile spread across her face.

There it was.

Nirvana.

One hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cloudlike engineering and obscenely high-thread-count sheets whispering against her skin.

She pressed her cheek into the pillow, smiling with the quiet wonder of someone who’d just discovered a secret she hadn’t known she’d been missing her whole life. I leaned back on the couch. Maybe that should have been my game plan all along. No need to burn her belongings; she’d move in just for my bed.

My phone was going wild . . . something about Maddox losing another million for failing to apologize, but I’d set the phone face down, letting them spiral without me.

I waited until the feed showed she’d finally stopped tossing and turning. I hadn’t given her a sedative tonight. A glass of champagne, orgasms, emotional collapse, and a mattress that felt like it was engineered by God himself? That would get her to sleep.

I set my beer down and pushed off the couch, moving through the penthouse without turning on any extra lights. Her door was cracked, and I eased it open and stepped inside.

She was curled in the center of my bed, my shirt twisted around her middle, her hair fanned across my pillow.

And there was that feeling again. The one that went beyond lust and possession and made me want to handcuff her to my wrist so she could never go anywhere without me.

I pulled the covers back and slid in behind her carefully, making sure not to wake her up. Not because I was worried about her finding me in bed with her anymore but because I knew she was exhausted.

I lay there on my back, staring at the ceiling, deliriously happy with myself that this was how the day had ended . . . with her in my bed and nowhere else to go.

“Jagger,” she suddenly murmured.

I froze, thinking she had woken up, but before I could check, she rolled over, fitting herself against me like she’d done it a thousand times before. Her head settled into my chest, and her arm draped across my ribs as she sank deeper into sleep.

There was no way I was going to be able to rest tonight.

I was too amped for tomorrow . . . for the way her thighs would part for me when I slid inside her and she felt every thick inch of my dick. The way her back would arch off the mattress, her nails digging into my shoulders, and her mouth open on a broken moan as I filled her completely.

I would go condomless for the first time, I thought dreamily. No barriers between us.

I’d hold her hips down, keep her pinned . . . watch her face when she came. Then I’d follow, spilling inside her, marking her from the inside out until there was no question who she belonged to.

Tomorrow.

Fucking tomorrow.

She shifted again in her sleep, pressing closer, her nose brushing the hollow of my throat. A soft sound slipped from her lips—half sigh, half whimper—and my cock jerked against her belly.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to stay still. To savor it.

This was only the beginning.

I couldn’t wait for…tomorrow.

CHAPTER 26

EDEN

Iwoke up in a bed that felt like a cloud had swallowed me whole.

The sheets were incredible and possibly possessed magical properties, judging by how well I’d slept. The fact that they were filled with Jagger’s scent also wasn’t the worst thing.

I should have been panicking. The fire had taken everything: my clothes, my furniture, the last few photos I had of Ryan, the stupid coffee mug he’d bought me on our first anniversary. All of it was gone. I should have already been on the phone with insurance, scouring Craigslist for cheap rentals, applying to every job within a fifty-mile radius. I should have been making lists, making calls, making plans.

Instead, I was lying here, tangled in Jagger’s sheets, staring at the ceiling like a woman who’d somehow been given everything she’d ever dreamed of.

The room was quiet except for the faint clink of dishes coming from somewhere down the hall. Reluctantly, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and my bare feet hit the cool hardwood. Jagger’s T-shirt brushed my thighs with every step, and I tugged the hem down as I padded down the hallway, trying to ignore how my body still felt marked by last night, how my skin remembered his mouth and his fingers.

I followed the delicious smells drifting through the apartment straight to the kitchen, my mouth already watering and ready to praise whatever Mrs. Nesbitt had left for us . . . until I turned the corner and promptly forgot my own name.

Jagger was shirtless.

He was leaning against the island with his back to me, one hand braced on the marble, the other wrapped around a glass of water. Sweat still clung to his shoulders from whatever workout he’d just finished, catching the morning light and making every muscle shift and flex under tanned skin as he lifted the glass to his mouth.

I stared, wide-eyed, at the tattoos curled over his back, the dark ink tracing his ribs and spine. His gym shorts rode low, and the waistband dipped just enough to show the cut of his hips and the delicious dimples at the base of his spine. He looked like sin standing there. And I was literally drooling.

I stopped in the doorway, forgetting how to breathe for a moment.

Jagger turned his head slightly, and his dark eyes found mine over his shoulder. “Good morning,” he practically purred, and I was proud of myself that I only rubbed my thighs together a little.

I didn’t answer right away because he turned toward me, and I was hit with the sight of his sweat-slick chest . . . and his abs.

If I wasn’t seeing them in real time, I would swear to you they were airbrushed. “You must work out a lot,” I stuttered, immediately wanting to give myself a throat punch for saying that.

It was just that besides on a Chippendale, I hadn’t seen abs like that except in pictures. Ryan hadn’t exactly been a gym rat. Being drunk or high all the time wasn’t a lifestyle friendly to the eight-pack ab mythology.

Which wasn’t actually a myth, it turns out. The proof of it was standing right in front of me.

I finally managed to make it past the abs and the V and the enormous bulge in his shorts . . . lower, to the counter, where two plates were waiting.

“I love Mrs. Nesbitt,” I whispered, staring at the crepes as if they might vanish if I blinked.

They were folded perfectly, the thin edges crisp and golden and dusted with a snowfall of powdered sugar. Strawberries had been sliced paper-thin and fanned out in delicate semicircles beside them, bright red against the pale plate. A small bowl of whipped cream sat to one side, while another held Nutella, the spoon already dipped in and resting against the rim. Steam curled lazily from the carafe of coffee beside two waiting mugs.

I blinked, wide-eyed, and glanced up at him. “I swear you’re Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny all rolled into one.”

He snorted. “I think many people would disagree with that characterization, but if you want to think that, I’m not going to stop you, baby.”

He nodded toward the plates again while crossing his arms, and I got stuck again on his muscles. “Mrs. Nesbitt came in early and made these for you.”

I looked around the empty kitchen, tugging harder at the hem of his shirt like it might suddenly cover more of me. “Mrs. Nesbitt . . . She was here? I didn’t even hear her.”

“You were out cold.” His eyes dragged down me, over the way his shirt clung to my breasts, the bare stretch of thigh, the messy hair I hadn’t bothered to tame. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Heat crawled up my neck, and I stepped closer to the island, my fingers brushing the edge of one plate.

“Sit,” Jagger ordered. “Eat.”

I slid onto the stool without arguing, my legs shaky as I tucked them under the island. He moved around the counter and poured coffee into one of the mugs before sliding it toward me.

My fork hovered in the air, mid-reach for the crepe, but my hand refused to move. I was too busy staring, completely lost in the slow flex of his abs as he shifted his weight against the counter. “Do you . . . have a shirt?” I squeaked. “Like . . . anywhere? You should put it on.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You want me to cover up?”

I swallowed. “It’s just . . . distracting me from the crepes. Which isn’t fair to Mrs. Nesbitt’s hard work.”

“‘Distracting,’” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the word. He straightened a little but didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in closer, his forearms flexing on the marble as he braced himself right in front of me. “Good.”

When my fork was still refusing to move, he reached across the island and grabbed my wrist. Jagger lifted my hand slowly and guided the fork toward my mouth. “Open,” he murmured.

My lips parted on instinct, and a soft whimper slipped out as he slid the fork between them.

The crepe hit my tongue, and I closed my eyes for half a second. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, right over my racing pulse, and I felt it everywhere: in my chest, between my thighs, in the tips of my fingers where they curled around the fork handle.

When I finally opened my eyes again, he was watching me intently. “Good girl,” he rasped.

Jagger released my wrist but didn’t step back.

I set the fork down, my fingers shaking. “Jagger . . .”

He tilted his head, waiting.

“I can’t think when you’re”—I gestured vaguely at his chest, his abs, the whole devastating picture of him—“like that.”

He grinned smugly. “Then don’t think.”

Jagger reached past me again, and this time his arm brushed the side of my breast as he picked up the fork, cut another bite, and held it to my lips. “Open.”

I whimpered again—quieter this time, but no less desperate—as he fed me.

Forkful after forkful of crepe and strawberry and Nutella, all while his eyes never left mine. I chewed and swallowed, trying to focus on the food instead of the way his bare chest rose and fell inches from me, instead of the heat of his palm on my thigh, instead of the way his thumb kept circling, higher, inching beneath the hem of my shirt until it brushed the sensitive crease where my thigh met my hip.

When only a few bites remained, his thumb finally slipped under the edge of my panties. He didn’t pause, though; he just kept feeding me with one hand while the other pushed the lace aside and slid one thick finger inside me.

I gasped around the bite of crepe.

Jagger curled his finger immediately, stroking that spot deep inside me. His thumb found my clit at the same time, pressing slow, firm circles as he held the fork to my lips. “Keep eating,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”

I moaned, but I obeyed.

I took the next bite he offered, chewing slowly while his finger pumped in and out of me, deep and insistent, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. The wet sounds were loud in the quiet kitchen, mixing with my ragged breaths and the soft clink of the fork against the plate.

He added a second finger, and I moaned around the strawberry, my hips rocking forward to meet his hand. Pleasure knotted deep inside me, swelling with every thrust of his fingers, and every firm press of his thumb against my clit.

“Swallow,” he ordered softly.

I did.

He fed me the last bite, one that was covered in Nutella, and watched my throat work as I swallowed it down.

Then he curled both fingers hard, stroking that spot again and again while his thumb rubbed relentless circles over my clit.

I came apart.

My back bowed as pleasure detonated inside me, pulse after pulse surging through every nerve until I was shaking apart. My pussy clenched around his fingers, and slick gushed over his hand and dripped onto the chair beneath me.

Eventually he eased his fingers out and brought them to his mouth . . . licking them clean while staring straight into my eyes. “Mm,” he said in a voice rough with satisfaction. “You’re right. That was good.”

I gasped, and he caught me with an arm around my waist and pulled me flush against his bare chest.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

He leaned in closer. Close enough that I felt the words against my lips before I heard them. “Just thinking about how hungry I still am.”

I shoved back on the stool so fast that it scraped against the floor. “I—I should shower,” I stammered, already sliding off the seat. “Yeah. Shower. Right now.”

He didn’t move to stop me, just watched as I backed away. “Eden,” he called after me. “What are you so afraid of?”

I stopped mid-step. “What?” I asked without turning around.

“What are you so afraid of?” he repeated.

His question settled between my shoulders as I stood there staring at the wall.

Ryan had broken my heart.

But he’d done it in small ways. Predictable ways. Spending all our money. Carelessly lying. Making me shoulder our life while he got drunk and gambled with his friends.

That all had hurt.

But it had been . . . ordinary.

A man like Jagger wasn’t ordinary. A man like Jagger didn’t half-do anything. I was sure that when he loved, it wasn’t in a small, manageable way.

If he wanted something, he took it. And if he decided he didn’t?

I turned slowly to face him and found him watching me intensely.

“I’m afraid,” I said carefully, forcing the words out before I could swallow them back down, “because what Ryan did to my heart was just . . . child’s play. He did it slowly. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left but apologies and empty promises and me wondering why I wasn’t enough.”

His expression didn’t change.

“My heart survived him,” I continued, my voice steadier now even though my hands weren’t. “It broke. But it survived.”

I held his gaze.

“You, however, could shatter me completely. You could make me love you so hard that when you left—or when you decided I wasn’t worth keeping—I wouldn’t just be broken. I’d be gone. Erased.”

I swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

“I don’t think I could survive you.”

“I’m not Ryan,” he responded quietly.

“I know,” I whispered, “and that’s what scares me the most.”

I turned and bolted down the hallway, very aware of his gaze following each step.

Jagger

I watched her go, and it was everything I could do to not follow after her.

Fucking hell.

I scrubbed a hand over my chest like I could physically work the feeling out of it. It didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. That tightness was back.

Letting out a quiet, incredulous laugh, I dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, dragging a hand down my face.

I didn’t think it would hurt this bad.

Not the wanting her. I was used to wanting Eden.

This was something else.

I pulled my phone out and opened my chat with Jace before I could talk myself out of it.

Me: Hypothetically. How did you know you were in love?

There was a pause. Then⁠—

Jace: When I realized I wanted to put a tracker in her neck.

I huffed out a quiet laugh. I mean, that made sense. But it wasn’t quite what I was looking for.

I’d already murdered her husband. If that was the bar, I’d pole-vaulted over it.

What I was looking for was . . . more.

Me: Be serious.

Jace: I am serious.

Me: …

Jace: Oh, you really are being serious.

Jace: I mean, I did put a tracker in her neck, so that part was true, but it was probably when…

I realized I was leaning toward my phone in anticipation as the bastard let me wait.

Me: When what?

Jace: Oh good, I’m glad you’re paying attention.

Me: Never fucking mind.

Jace: Okay, Jagger-meister. Be chill. I’ll tell you because I can tell you’re having an emotional crisis, and big girls don’t cry.

Jace: I realized I was in love with Riley when everything else seemed completely unimportant.

I pursed my lips.

Me: Define everything.

Jace: Games. Money. Ego. Winning. Being right. All of it.

Jace: When none of that hit the same unless she was okay.

I stared at the screen, thinking it through.

Me: What if she’s afraid of me?

There was a pause this time.

Jace: Of you? Or of losing herself?

I didn’t answer that.

Jace: Does it matter, Jagger? We’re Thatcher men. Of course they’re going to be afraid of us at first. We’re exceptional llamas without the drama.

I shook my head and scoffed.

Me: I don’t even know what you just said, but please never say it again.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and the phone dangling loosely in my hand.

Jace: Also: . . .

Jace: So what you’re saying is that I have been right this whole time, and you do, in fact have a woman?

Me: Talk to you later, Jace-face.

Jace: I’m screenshotting your emotional crisis for blackmail later.

Me: Try it, and I’ll put a tracker in your neck.

Jace: Kinky. Maybe I’ll like that.

I put our chat on mute and then set my phone down on the table.

Eden thought I was the thing that could destroy her, but she didn’t understand yet . . .

I’d already decided I was the only thing allowed to.

CHAPTER 27

EDEN

Istepped out of Jagger’s room wearing the shirt I’d had on yesterday and a pair of black leggings that had mysteriously appeared on the bed while I was in the shower.

Jagger was waiting for me in the hallway, fully dressed, thankfully. He wasn’t wearing a suit for once, but the dark jeans, black Henley, and boot combo he had on were just as devastating.

If trouble ever decided to take human form, it would look exactly like him.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice sounding hoarse as he stared at me hungrily, as though I was wearing lingerie instead of a basic tee and leggings.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To get you new clothes.”

“I don’t need⁠—”

Jagger closed the distance before I could finish arguing and cupped my jaw, kissing me and shutting down any more of my protest. When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against mine. “You do,” he murmured.

Not giving me time to think, he laced his fingers through mine and started walking, tugging me gently down the hall and into his private elevator. Instead of heading down to his garage, though, we ended up on the casino floor . . . where I worked.

I kept my head down, my cheeks burning as some of my coworkers stared at us as we passed. I didn’t blame them for looking at us. My hair was still wet, I didn’t have any makeup on, and I was holding hands with the hottest man alive—who also happened to own the place where we worked.

A fact that I’m sure some of them knew because most people were not as oblivious as me.

Jagger didn’t seem to notice all the stares . . . or maybe he was just used to them and didn’t care.

“Eden!”

The voice cut through the low hum of slots and chatter. I looked up and saw Leigh weaving through a row of blackjack tables, a tray tucked under one arm, and her eyes wide. She broke into a jog the last few steps, stopping short when she saw Jagger. Her gaze darted between us, then landed on our joined hands.

“Oh my gosh,” she breathed. “I heard what happened. The fire at your place. Are you okay?”

I blinked. Right. I’d had to text a supervisor about my uniform last night because it had burned in the fire. I’d tried to keep it vague . . . but apparently vague didn’t travel far in a place like this. With Ryan’s death just happening and then my apartment . . . I was sure I was keeping everyone talking. I could only imagine what they would be saying after today.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.”

Leigh stepped closer, ignoring Jagger completely now. “Listen, I just wanted to say . . . my roommates and I have an opening if you need somewhere to stay. The rent’s cheap. Like actually cheap. We’ve got an extra room, and it’s nothing fancy. No pressure, just . . . if you need somewhere to go.”

The offer hit me like a lifeline and a brick at the same time. Cheap rent. Roommates. A way out of this glittering cage Jagger was beginning to build around me.

I looked up at him just as I opened my mouth to answer.

Jagger hadn’t said a word yet; he hadn’t even tightened his grip on my hand. But he had gone perfectly still except for his thumb, which was brushing over my knuckles like he was warning me.

And I knew, knew, that if I said yes to Leigh, he would cut in and make sure that I never left.

The thing was . . . I didn’t want to leave him. It was absolutely insane, not to mention wildly inappropriate, but⁠—

I wanted this.

I wanted him.

Leigh was still watching me expectantly, and I swallowed and finally answered her. “I already found a place,” I said carefully. “But thank you. That’s really sweet.”

Her eyes flicked to Jagger, then back to me, and understanding dawned across her face. “Oh,” she said softly. “Okay.” She gave me a small, knowing smile. “If you change your mind⁠—”

“She won’t,” Jagger finally cut in.

“Thank you,” I told her, shooting him a look.

Leigh squeezed my arm once, then glanced at Jagger hesitantly before walking away and disappearing into the crowd. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Jagger turned to me, his thumb brushing slow circles over my wrist as he leaned forward so his breath ghosted across my cheek.

“Good girl,” he murmured . . . and I shivered.

My lips parted, but no sound came out.

His mouth brushed my temple, then drifted lower, grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear. “And I’m going to make sure you never regret it,” he said, so quietly it was almost lost in the casino din.

Jagger’s fingers tightened around mine just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me I’d made a choice. And then he guided me forward again, like there had never been another option.

We stepped out the side exit into the bright morning light, and he steered me toward the row of high-end boutiques that lined the casino’s luxury wing. I’d always walked past them before, their glass fronts filled with mannequins draped in outfits that probably cost more than my rent.

When he’d said shopping, I’d imagined going to a Target or Walmart . . . somewhere practical. But I’d obviously been a fool and should have known better.

He stopped in front of L’Étoile, a store I’d never dared step inside. It had sleek black doors and a single black dress in the window that was draped on a faceless mannequin.

“Jagger,” I said, tugging on his hand. “This isn’t⁠—”

As usual, he didn’t let me finish. He just opened the door and pulled me inside.

The air was cool and scented with something that smelled expensive. Soft music was playing, and a woman in a tailored black suit smiled at us like we were royalty.

“Mr. Thatcher,” she said smoothly. “I have everything ready. Right this way.”

I dug my heels in as she disappeared behind a curtain. “Jagger,” I hissed. “I thought we were going to . . . I don’t know, a regular store. I need jeans. Underwear. A toothbrush. Not”—I gestured wildly at the racks of silk and satin and things that looked like they belonged on red carpets—“this.”

He turned to face me fully, still holding my hand. “You need clothes,” he murmured so only I could hear. “Real clothes. Not whatever you can grab off a rack. You’re not scraping by anymore, Eden. You’re mine.”

My throat closed. “I’m not . . . I don’t need you to⁠—”

“I know what you need.” He stepped closer, crowding me against the doorframe just enough that I felt the heat of him again. “You lost everything, and I’m giving it all back. But better.”

I stared up at him, heart hammering.

“You want to fight me on this?” he asked. “Fine. Fight. It will just make the sex better later. But you’re still walking out of here with bags. You’re still coming home with me. And you’re still wearing whatever the fuck they sell in this store.”

My breath hitched.

He leaned in. “Or I can carry you through this store over my shoulder. Pick everything myself. You want that instead?”

I shook my head quickly, and he pulled back, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “Let’s go.”

The saleswoman was waiting for us behind the curtain, and she smiled widely, leading us deeper into the store—past racks of dresses and lingerie and shoe displays that made my feet hurt just looking at them.

I was such an imposter right now; I was just waiting for Jagger to realize it.

“That one,” he said to the saleswoman, nodding at a black dress with thin straps and a slit up the thigh that looked like it might show my vagina. “And the red. The silk one.”

I opened my mouth to protest, and he shot me a pointed look. Right . . . I wasn’t supposed to be arguing.

The saleswoman grabbed the dresses and nodded toward another curtained area. “I have tons of clothes waiting for you. Should we try them on?”

“Okay,” I choked out, and followed her after a soft push from Jagger.

The dressing room was behind a heavy velvet curtain. The space was larger than my entire living room used to be, and there were mirrors on three walls, a plush bench, and lighting that made you look like a model instead of a dying peasant. There were racks of clothes lining one wall, each piece more stunning than the last.

I just won’t look at the tags . . .

I stood there awkwardly, staring at everything in shock.

How the fuck had I gotten here?

“Shall we start with this?” she asked, pulling a pretty blue jumpsuit from the rack.

I nodded mutely. What else was I supposed to do?

As I slipped out of my shirt and leggings, she hovered nearby with professional discretion, adjusting a hanger here, smoothing a seam there. I pulled the jumpsuit on carefully, half expecting it to reject me on principle.

It didn’t. The fabric slid over my skin like it had been waiting for me.

As I smoothed it down over my hips, she spoke casually, “How long have you known Mr. Thatcher?”

I hesitated just a fraction. “A while.” Which was technically true if you stretched the definition of a while into something unrecognizable.

She made a small humming sound, stepping closer to adjust the strap at my shoulder. “Ah.”

Her accent shifted just slightly on the word—so subtle I almost missed it. The polished, neutral cadence slipped, and something Irish-sounding curled underneath it.

“You must be very . . . brave,” she said.

I frowned at my reflection. “‘Brave’?”

She met my eyes in the mirror, her tone still pleasant. “Mr. Thatcher is . . . ambitious.” The Irish lilt surfaced again on the word, soft but unmistakable.

“I’ve dressed many women who stand beside powerful men,” she continued, stepping back to assess me. “It takes a certain disposition.”

I blinked at her reflection.

“I work at the casino,” I said slowly. “I know he owns it.”

Her smile didn’t change.

“Yes,” she said.

She stepped closer again, smoothing the fabric at my waist with careful fingers. “Has he told you,” she asked lightly, that faint Irish cadence threading back in, “about all the other things he and his friends own?”

There was something in the way she said it—something that felt like it held more weight than it should have.

My pulse skipped. “‘Other things’?”

Her eyes held mine in the mirror.

“Properties,” she murmured. “Interests. Investments. So many things . . .”

My stomach tightened.

“I don’t think that’s any of my business,” I said, though it came out softer than I meant it to.

A corner of her mouth lifted. “That’s usually how it begins.”

Before I could press further, male voices drifted in from beyond the curtain. The change in her was subtle but immediate. Her shoulders straightened. Her hands stilled against my waist. For the briefest second, tension flickered across her face before it vanished beneath professional composure.

When she spoke again, the accent was gone entirely. “This color suits you,” she said as she stepped back. “He’ll like this one.”

Before I could respond, she turned briskly and began pulling more pieces from the rack for me to try on.

Her movements were efficient now—no more commentary or hints.

I stood there in the blue jumpsuit, staring at my reflection and trying to shake the strange feeling pooling low in my stomach.

Had she been warning me?

Jagger

I was halfway through my second coffee and pretending I wasn’t staring at the dressing room curtain longingly when the boutique door chimed. I glanced up and nearly launched the cup across the room as I shot to my feet.

“Absolutely not,” I growled.

Cruz stopped mid-step, one hand still on the door, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair like he was on vacation instead of trespassing into my morning. “Wow,” he said lightly. “No hello? No hug? You’ve lost three bestie points for your tone, Jags.” He took another lazy step forward, hands in his pockets. “You would think you’d be glad to see me. I’m always glad to see you.”

“You have five seconds to leave,” I told him flatly.

He glanced around the boutique, taking in the polished floors and the staff who were already fawning at him. “Relax. I was in the neighborhood.”

“You don’t shop.”

“I don’t,” he agreed cheerfully. “But when I saw you were here, I knew this was my chance to meet your girl.”

“Not happening.”

He grinned. “Protective. I love this version of you.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

Cruz’s eyes flicked down. “What are you doing?”

“Finding wherever you hid the tracking app,” I said through my teeth as I swiped through my settings.

He collapsed into a chair, amused. “Why do you think it’s on your phone?”

I froze, and without meaning to, my hand went to my neck.

Cruz’s grin widened. “What are you doing now?”

I ignored him, pressing along the side of my throat as I searched for a tiny surgical scar. Jace’s voice echoed in my head. When I realized I wanted to put a tracker in her neck.

Cruz watched me panic and actually laughed. “You think I injected you?”

“You’re unhinged enough,” I muttered.

He took a glass of champagne from a simpering sales associate and waved it at me. “Relax. If I did tag you, it won’t hurt you, and if I didn’t, never say never.”

“You’re going to tell me how you’re watching me,” I said evenly.

He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Am I?” he asked.

I pointed at him. “I will figure it out.”

He winked. “But will you?”

His eyes flicked toward the dressing room curtain. “She in there?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re just . . . waiting?”

“I’m exercising restraint.”

Cruz studied me for a long second, then leaned forward with exaggerated seriousness. “You want me to go in there and give feedback? I have a strong eye for silhouettes.”

“If you take one step toward that curtain,” I said evenly, “I will remove your kneecaps.”

He held up both hands. “Okay. Okay. Touchy.”

The curtain rustled, and before I could do something, like kill Cruz and hide his body, Eden stepped out in a red dress.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

The silk clung to her as though it had been poured on. It hugged her tits, and her waist, flaring just enough at the hips before the thigh-high slit revealed a long, smooth leg with every step. The back was open almost to the dimples above her ass, a single thin strap crossing between her shoulder blades like it was daring me to snap it. The neckline plunged low, framing cleavage that made my mouth go dry and my cock twitch painfully against my zipper.

She looked fucking gorgeous.

Cruz made a low, appreciative noise beside me. “Okay. Yeah. I get it now.”

I shot him a look that promised violence and stepped in front of him so I was blocking his view.

He snickered behind me like an asshole.

The saleswoman cleared her throat delicately. “It’s a very popular style. The silk is⁠—”

“Wrap it up,” I murmured. “All of it. Everything. And whatever else you think she’d look good in. Shoes. Lingerie. Everything.”

Her lips curved, I’m sure seeing dollar signs floating above my head. “Of course.”

Eden’s gaze flicked to Cruz, and she tilted her head toward him, clearly trying to place him.

I exhaled, already irritated as I stepped aside so they could see each other. “Eden,” I said, forcing myself to sound civil. “This is Cruz. My best friend. And my business partner.”

The words tasted reluctant.

Cruz straightened and gave her a small nod. “Hi,” he murmured.

I glanced at him, because what the fuck was that?

He wasn’t even looking at her when he said that, and all his usual charm was nowhere to be found. And I knew it wasn’t for my benefit.

Cruz’s gaze was tracking the saleswoman as she moved toward the counter with an armful of garments. His jaw tightened slightly, a faint crease appearing between his brows.

Eden noticed, too. Her gaze darted between us, then to the saleswoman disappearing behind a staff door.

I cleared my throat. “He’s harmless,” I told her. “Mostly.”

Cruz snorted, but it lacked his usual bite. His eyes stayed on the black door marked staff only a second longer before he dragged them back to Eden.

“You look . . .” He paused, actually searching for words. “You look good. Red suits you.”

Eden gave a small, uncertain smile. “Thanks.”

I stepped closer to her, my hand settling on her lower back possessively. “Ignore him. He’s just here to annoy me.”

Cruz’s frown lingered, though. His eyes went to the door again, then to me. I shot him a questioning glare, and he shook his head.

“Eden,” I said smoothly, keeping my tone casual, even though my pulse had shifted, “why don’t you change into whatever you want to wear out of here?”

Her eyes moved between us, sensing something but not quite placing it. “Okay . . .”

She disappeared behind the curtain, the velvet falling closed with a soft sweep. The second it did, I turned to Cruz. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer immediately; his gaze was still on the staff door. “I know her,” he said quietly.

“The saleswoman? Bethany? Cheryl?” I frowned. “I actually have no idea what her name is.”

“I’ve seen her before.”

“That narrows it down.”

He exhaled through his nose. “She was in a picture.”

I went very still. “What picture?”

Cruz’s gaze cut to mine. “A picture featuring Cormac O’Dalaigh.”

Cormac O’Dalaigh . . . also known as the head of the Irish mob.

I stared at Cruz. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “She was standing beside him at a private dinner one of our guys attended last month in Boston.”

“You didn’t tell me you sent someone to that.”

He shrugged. “I think it was right after you spent the night partying with Daniels after their game here. I may not have been in the sharing type of mood.”

I rolled my eyes, making another mental note that Cruz was a psychopath. “You’re positive?”

Cruz huffed out a humorless breath. “I thought she was hot, so I stared at the photo longer than I probably should have. She was wearing her hair different. But that’s her.”

“What’s the plan?” I asked quietly.

Cruz’s face went cold, and he started walking toward the staff-only door without another word.

“Cruz,” I snapped.

“To talk to her, of course,” he said over his shoulder, already stalking forward.

“Give me a second, and I’ll help.”

He gave me a tight nod and pushed through the door, disappearing into the back.

I turned toward the dressing room and pulled the curtain aside just enough to slip my head in—and my brain flatlined.

Eden stood in front of the trifold mirror, wearing nothing but outrageously sexy lingerie that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Black lace. Sheer panels. Straps that crossed her back and front in an intricate web, framing her breasts like they were being offered up. The bra was barely there—cups so low her nipples were visible through the lace, hard and peaked from the cool air or nerves or both. The matching thong rode high on her hips, a thin strip of fabric disappearing between the cheeks of her perfect ass. Lace garters dug into her thighs just enough to leave faint red lines.

She locked eyes with me in the mirror, and her cheeks flushed, her fingers hovering at the edge of the bra like she wasn’t sure whether to cover up or turn around and show me more.

My mouth went dry. My cock went from half hard to aching in half a second. I wanted to drop to my knees right there . . . rip the lace off with my teeth. I wanted to bend her against the mirror and fuck her until the glass cracked.

But I forced myself to breathe and to at least not sound like I was going to die as I spoke to her. “I have to talk to the owner about something,” I said, the words sounding distant even to me. “The shop rents from Paradise. I’ll be right back.”

Her face fell, and I realized my mistake—she thought I didn’t like what I was seeing.

I immediately palmed myself through my pants, obvious and unashamed, squeezing once to take the edge off the pain that had me throbbing so hard I could barely think straight. My eyes stayed locked on hers in the mirror as I dragged my hand up the length of my cock, letting her see exactly how much she was wrecking me.

“I’m dying, baby,” I rasped. “Literally dying. Keep those on, and we’re going to do something about that outfit when we get home.”

Her eyes widened, and her gaze dropped to my hand, then snapped back to my face. I gave her one last desperate look, then forced myself to step back and push through the staff door Cruz had just disappeared behind.

The door shut behind me with a soft click, and I stopped dead.

Cruz stood maybe five feet away, his hands raised slightly, palms out. In front of him, the saleswoman held a compact pistol steady, the barrel pointed center mass at Cruz’s chest. Her face was calm, but her finger was on the trigger, and her eyes were cold.

Another example of how the palms out move had never done anything. I needed to start making a record of this.

Cruz’s usual smirk was gone, and in its place was the flat, lethal calm he wore when things went bad and he was plotting.

The saleswoman didn’t turn toward me. She kept the gun trained on Cruz as though she’d been waiting for me to walk through that door. “Jagger,” she said evenly.

I snapped my fingers and pointed at her. “Claudia. That’s what you told me your name was.”

Her lip curled, and this time she did turn her head just enough for me to see the contempt in her eyes. “I told you my name was Brandy, you piece of shit,” she snarled at me . . . with an interesting new Irish lilt. Her gaze flicked back to Cruz, the gun never wavering. “But my real name is Saoirse.”

I groaned. “Do you know how insufferable he’s going to be knowing he was right? He’s going to be impossible to deal with. So thank you very much.”

Cruz tilted his head, the calm in his eyes sharpening into something else, like he’d just spotted a flaw in her armor and was already planning how to exploit it. “Well, Saoirse,” he said silkily, ignoring me, “did O’Dalaigh tell you you’d die if he sent you here? Or did he leave that part out?”

She hissed at him, low and venomous. “Shut up.”

The gun trembled—just a fraction—but we both saw it.

“It’s a simple question,” Cruz continued. “Did you come here thinking this would be a one-way ticket to his dick . . . or what?”

She bared her teeth at him. “Cormac O’Dalaigh loves me.”

For half a beat, there was silence as we stared at her incredulously. Then Cruz barked out a laugh. I followed right after him, the sound ripping from my chest. “Claudia,” I drawled, “that’s hilarious.”

Her eyes went glacial, and a second later a shot cracked through the room. The sound was deafening in the tight space.

The bullet screamed past Cruz’s ear, so close I saw a strand of his hair lift with the heat of it, and plaster exploded from the wall behind him.

Cruz didn’t flinch . . . but we both stopped laughing.

“You’re not cackling now, are you?” she asked as her gaze slid to me. “And by the way . . . Jagger,” she said, her voice turning almost conversational, “your little girlfriend isn’t so stupid.”

A muscle ticked in my jaw.

“She watches, and she listens, and eventually she’s going to start asking the right questions.”

“What did you tell her?” I asked casually like she’d just mentioned a scheduling conflict instead of a potential nuclear detonation in my personal life.

Saoirse smiled. “Just enough.”

Well, that was fun. It better not mess with my plans, or I was going to kill her and then bring her back and kill her again . . . out of spite.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement, a shadow where there hadn’t been one a second ago. Maddox was crouched low behind a stack of shipping boxes near the back wall. He nodded at me.

Cruz must have texted him the second he’d realized who Claudia was.

Saoirse, Jagger. Get it together. You’re just being rude at this point.

Cruz shifted his weight subtly, a simple adjustment that masked his calculation of distance and angle. “Saoirse,” he said gently, “you’ve got one chance here. Put the gun down. We can help you.”

She threw her head back and laughed, and it was grating against my ears, if I was being honest.

“Help me?” she repeated. “I don’t need your help.”

The gun stayed steady, trained on Cruz’s chest.

“Cormac’s men are already here,” she continued. “We’re buying up properties on Fremont Street through shell companies. We’ve been moving shipments through your docks . . . stealing things from right under your noses.”

At that, Cruz and I exchanged a look. I was going to get that weapons shipment back from them really fucking soon.

“You think this is your city?” she went on. “It’s not. It’s changing. It’s already changed. And when I walk back to him with your head”—her eyes glittered—“I’ll be richly rewarded.”

Cruz smiled faintly. “That so?”

“Our men are everywhere. Cops. Council members. Judges. We’ve been laying the groundwork for years.”

Maddox shifted another inch behind the boxes.

Saoirse’s expression turned almost reverent. “The end of the Syndicate starts today.”

“Its technical name is the Vale Syndicate,” I offered.

“What?” she snapped as Maddox got closer.

“I just mean it’s really insulting if you don’t call us by the right name, ya know? Unless you actually do prefer to be called Claudia,” I said.

She screeched and pulled the trigger. The shot exploded through the room at the same time that Maddox lunged, one arm hooking around her throat and the other slamming into her wrist.

He was one second too late.

Cruz’s body jerked as the bullet hit him in the chest. He staggered back a step, then another, before dropping hard to one knee.

The gun clattered across the concrete as Maddox wrenched her arm behind her back. She fought like something feral, heels scraping, nails clawing, spitting curses in Irish as he forced her down.

Thank fuck Cruz always wore a vest.

He coughed once, looking mildly inconvenienced as he pressed a hand to his chest. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. “That one’s going to bruise.”

I exhaled slowly and stepped forward. Saoirse froze when she saw my expression. She should be scared. This was taking far too long. Eden was out there waiting for me in fucking lingerie . . . and what if she’d heard those shots?

Maddox had Saoirse pinned now, her cheek smashed to the floor and her arm twisted high enough to dislocate if he felt like it. She thrashed once more, then went still when he tightened his grip.

“You really should’ve listened,” Cruz said, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace. He rolled his shoulder like he’d just taken a hard tackle instead of a bullet.

I crouched down in front of her. “You know what O’Dalaigh’s biggest mistake is?” I asked conversationally.

She glared at me, breathing hard.

“Thinking we had no idea about any of that.”

Her eyes flickered as I tilted my head.

“The police are good, by the way. We dumped your three men into Lake Mead three months ago.”

Maddox clicked his tongue. “And you took care of Paulie’s place, didn’t you?” he asked me.

I grimaced at the reminder of the condoms . . . and the sock. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Maddox patted her back. “Cormac’s been sloppy.”

“That’s a lie,” she hissed, thrashing against him again.

Behind me, Cruz stepped up, adjusting his jacket over the vest. “You won’t get rewarded for this,” he said. “You’ll get forgotten.”

Her jaw trembled as Cruz crouched beside me, his voice dropping to something lethal and cold. “And as for the end of the Vale Syndicate?” He leaned closer to her ear. “It doesn’t start today.”

Then he rose smoothly to his feet and adjusted his jacket, unfazed by the bullet he’d just taken to the chest. His gaze shifted to Maddox. “Take her to Gage.”

The reaction was immediate.

She went completely rigid in Maddox’s grip. “No.” The word ripped from her throat, panicked this time instead of smug.

Cruz’s brows lifted slightly, almost pleased. “Ahh,” he murmured. “So you’ve heard of our friend.”

Her breathing turned shallow and frantic. “Just kill me now,” she spat, though there was a tremor under the venom. “Do it.”

“Apologies, my sweets. But I have a lot more information to get,” Cruz said.

Maddox tightened his hold and hauled her upright.

She suddenly stopped thrashing.

For a split second, I thought she’d finally understood there wasn’t an exit here. Then I saw it—the subtle shift in her jaw, the unnatural set of her teeth.

Cruz saw it, too. “Maddox⁠—”

There was a small crack between her molars. Foam bloomed at the corners of her mouth almost instantly. Her eyes widened, and whatever faith she’d been clinging to evaporated into something ugly and human . . . fear. Her body jerked as her fingers clawed uselessly at Maddox’s forearm before her muscles seized and then went limp.

Maddox swore under his breath as he lowered her to the concrete.

The room went quiet except for the faint ringing still lingering in my ears from the gunshots.

Cruz reached down and checked her pulse out of habit, then exhaled slowly. “Cyanide capsule.”

I stared at her for a long moment, irritation settling in heavier than anything else. “Absolutely not,” I muttered.

Cruz glanced up at me.

“No one tells Gage about this,” I snapped. “His head is already too big. He does not need to know people are killing themselves just to avoid him.”

Maddox barked out a short laugh despite the body at his feet.

Cruz’s mouth twitched. “Fair.” He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves like the pretty-boy prick that he was. Somehow his sunglasses were still perched on his head, even after getting shot. He glanced down at Saoirse’s body, then at Maddox.

“Get someone to crate her up,” he said. “Ship her back to Boston. I want her delivered to Cormac. Let’s make sure his wife sees her.”

Maddox grinned. “Should we leave a note?”

“I think he’ll understand,” Cruz said with a wink.

I checked my watch and exhaled. I’d lost twenty fucking minutes on this. “I need to get back out there.”

Cruz’s eyes slid to me knowingly. “Of course you do.”

Maddox smirked. “Oh, Eden’s out there. I should go meet her.”

Cruz clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That’s a great idea, Maddox. I met her before this, and I think I need to make a better impression. I was a little distracted.”

“Absolutely not,” I threw over my shoulder as I pushed through the staff door and came to a screeching halt.

Why exactly was I hearing Lawson’s laughter?

I rounded the corner and stopped dead.

Lawson was sprawled in one of the velvet chairs, looking like he’d just returned from Hawaii in board shorts and a thin white V-neck. Eden sat beside him, her cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, a half-empty champagne flute dangling from her fingers.

Apparently, she hadn’t heard anything suspicious.

Lawson lifted his glass lazily when he saw me. “To Jagger,” he toasted, grinning.

Eden blinked up at me like I was slightly out of focus. “You were gone forever,” she accused softly. “But your friend is so much fun!”

My jaw tightened. “Lawson . . . what exactly are you doing here?”

Lawson took a long sip, still watching me over the rim. “Cruz said we were having a party. So here I am.”

I growled. These motherfuckers were literally the biggest cockblockers in the world.

Eden’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” she whispered. “He’s doing the caveman thing.”

Eden had changed into a fitted blue dress Claudia must’ve talked her into—something light and dangerously flattering that skimmed her curves and made her look sweet instead of sinful.

It did not help my mood.

Cruz took one look at her—flushed cheeks, glossy eyes, champagne in hand—and then at me.

“Well,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders before I could evade him, “I guess it’s time.”

I went still. “Time for what?”

He grinned. “To officially welcome your girlfriend to the family.”

Eden froze. “His what?” she demanded, pointing at her own chest like she needed confirmation.

“Girlfriend,” Lawson supplied helpfully.

Her head snapped toward me so fast she almost lost her balance. “I am not—” She straightened, her dignity wobbling but intact. “That’s not what this is.”

I was suddenly warming up to this conversation. “Fair point. We might’ve skipped a meeting about labels, but we can fix that now if you’d like.”

Eden’s eyes widened, and I cupped the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss before she could spiral into another argument. When I pulled back, she was breathing hard. “You can object to the label,” I murmured. “You don’t get to object to the reality.”

Her lips parted. Then she muttered, “We’re revisiting this when I’m sober.”

Behind us, Lawson lifted his glass again. “To the nongirlfriend.”

I shot him a look.

He grinned wider. “Now, let’s go party.”

CHAPTER 28

EDEN

Somehow, after the boutique chaos and the “non-girlfriend” debate that I was absolutely reopening later, we’d ended up at one of Paradise’s absurdly expensive hotel buffets that was technically closed but very much open for its owners, Jagger and, it turned out . . .his friends.

The men seemed to be treating it like a competitive sport.

Maddox had stacked his plate as though he was preparing for winter. “If it fits,” he said solemnly, balancing three carving-station steaks on top of one another, “it sits.”

“That’s not how plates work,” I told him, reaching for another crab leg.

“It is today,” Lawson replied, already on his second dessert before finishing his first entrée. He pointed his fork at me. “Get the crème brûlée. Trust me.”

“I don’t trust men who wear board shorts,” I shot back.

He looked down at himself. “You say that, but I bet your mind changes when you find out the store’s website described this outfit as coastal elegance.”

Cruz carved a slice of prime rib with surgical precision. “Ignore him. He once tried to get us to invest in alpacas. He can’t be trusted with anything.”

“Least of all clothes,” Maddox muttered, like Lawson’s wardrobe was a long-standing grievance between them. Maddox was dressed immaculately in a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and gold cuff links without a wrinkle in sight despite the fact that he was currently devouring half a cow.

I bit back a smile.

“That alpaca was actually a tax strategy,” Lawson argued.

“I didn’t save any money on taxes when I owned one,” Maddox complained. “And I almost lost a finger.”

I couldn’t stop my smile this time, trying to imagine Maddox in his suit, wrangling an alpaca. Lawson noticed I was struggling and shot me a wink. Which then earned him a death glare from Jagger because, evidently, winking at me wasn’t allowed, even with him sitting next to me with one hand attached to my hip.

Jagger and his friends were all loud and competitive, mocking one another relentlessly over shrimp cocktail and caviar. But underneath it—there was something else.

When Maddox reached for a plate that was about to slip, Cruz caught it without looking. When Lawson choked laughing at his own joke, Jagger shoved a glass of water toward him automatically.

It wasn’t forced or performative. It was easy. I’d never seen anything like it.

Ryan’s friends had been friends in the loosest of forms. They’d been users who’d enjoyed ruining his life. They’d hovered around him like satellites, waiting for whatever they could siphon off.

Jagger’s friends seemed nothing like that.

I cracked open another crab leg, the shell giving way with a satisfying snap, and watched the easy chaos unfold around me. Maddox was now trying to balance a fourth steak on his teetering pile while Cruz calmly transferred a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Maddox’s plate like a concerned parent. Lawson had moved on to chocolate mousse, spooning it straight from the serving bowl with zero shame.

I couldn’t help it. A small laugh escaped me, and they all looked up.

Jagger’s thumb paused its slow circle on my hip. “What’s funny?” he asked softly.

I shook my head, still smiling. “You guys. You’re all ridiculous. But . . . you’re also kind of perfect together.”

Lawson snorted. “‘Perfect’? I’m not sure people usually use that word to describe us, but I’ll take it.”

Cruz raised his glass in mock salute. “To the Syndicate of Dysfunction.”

Jagger scoffed at the title and shot Cruz a pointed look. Cruz raised a mocking eyebrow at him as something unsaid passed between them that I didn’t understand.

Maddox lifted his overloaded plate like a trophy, distracting me. “To the famiglia,” he said, grinning at Jagger in a similar way as Cruz. Jagger rolled his eyes.

I was positive that Maddox wasn’t Italian, and I certainly wasn’t, but I still recognized the word. Family.

I looked around the table at the men who’d just spent the last hour giving one another unrelenting shit and yet somehow still managing to make sure everyone had what they needed. Maddox had quietly slid an extra crab leg onto Lawson’s plate when he wasn’t looking. Cruz had refilled Jagger’s coffee without being asked. Jagger’s hand hadn’t left my hip once, like he needed the contact as much as I did.

I’d never had anything like this.

And suddenly the ache in my chest wasn’t just grief anymore. It was longing. For this. For people who didn’t leave. For a place where I might actually belong.

I glanced at Jagger. He was watching me again, like always, and once again it felt as if he could see straight through every wall I’d ever built. His thumb resumed its slow circle on my hip, grounding me without words.

I swallowed and looked back at the table. “How do you all know each other?” I asked quietly.

Cruz leaned back, smirking. “Believe it or not, Jagger and I met at an investment bank in New York. We started together—two hungry bastards in suits, thinking we could outsmart the system.”

Jagger’s mouth curved. “We did.”

“For a while,” Cruz added. “Then we decided the entrepreneur life was more our speed. Less suits, more . . . creative problem-solving.”

Lawson snorted. “Can I point out that you both still wear suits most of the time?”

Jagger threw a dinner roll at him, and he grinned.

Cruz ignored them both, keeping his eyes on me. “We found the others along the way. Maddox is my cousin and does most of our operations work. Lawson handles the tech side, and our friend Gage . . .” He grinned again like something else was funny. “Gage is a silent investor.”

Lawson nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s one way to say it.”

I glanced at Jagger, confused. “Gage works for the FBI,” he explained.

“Really?”

Jagger nodded and laughed at my reaction. “He has to work a lot, so you won’t see him as much as the others.”

The guys were all smiling like there was still something else happening here, but I was still too tipsy on champagne to really care.

Lawson set his glass down and pushed his chair back a little. “We’re boring her.”

“I’m not bored,” I said quickly.

“We need some competition,” Cruz cut in as if I hadn’t spoken.

Lawson’s eyes lit up. “Cards?”

“Finally,” Maddox muttered, already standing.

Jagger looked at me, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Do you know how to play?”

I smirked. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

His grin widened. “That confidence makes me nervous.” His hand tightened once at my hip before he stood, guiding me up with him.

“It should,” I teased.

Jagger’s hand stayed on my lower back as we left the buffet and walked into a private card room I hadn’t ever seen before. His palm was warm through the fabric of my dress, his fingers splayed wide enough to feel possessive without being obvious to anyone watching. Every step made the silk shift against my skin, reminding me of the lingerie I was wearing underneath that I hadn’t changed out of at the boutique.

I tried to focus on the conversation around us—Maddox complaining about something Lawson had done, Cruz dryly suggesting they play for real money this time—but my attention kept slipping. Jagger’s thumb was moving again, tracing slow, lazy circles over the small of my back, just above where the dress dipped low. Each pass sent heat pooling lower, making me hyperaware of how damp my thong already was and how sensitive my clit felt with every brush of lace.

He leaned in as we walked, his lips brushing the shell of my ear so only I could hear. “We’re only staying for a few hands,” he murmured. “I have plans.”

My pulse stuttered. The words were quiet and innocent enough on their own, but the way he said them made my thighs clench. I knew exactly what kind of plans he had. The kind that involved his hands, his mouth, his cock, and me screaming his name until my voice gave out.

I glanced up at him, a shy smile tugging at my lips despite the heat still simmering under my skin.

I was so ready for his plans.

A card hit the felt, and Lawson threw both arms in the air. “That’s how you do it.”

Maddox swore and slid chips across the table. Gage, who had appeared a few minutes after we’d come into the room, leaned back, studying the spread like he could undo it through sheer focus. Cruz barely reacted as he adjusted his stack with quiet precision.

I smiled, watching Lawson enjoy his very temporary moment.

Two days ago, I would’ve been standing behind him with a tray balanced on my palm, tracking whose drink was low and who needed another refill. I would’ve memorized their betting rhythms without ever touching the cards myself.

Now, my elbows rested on the table, and chips were stacked neatly in front of me.

And I was winning.

“Your turn,” Maddox said, glancing at me.

The dealer slid two cards my way, and I picked them up smoothly, barely lifting them from the surface. In high school, my math teacher had turned poker into a lesson plan—applied probability, expected value, risk assessment under uncertainty. We’d calculated outcomes on whiteboards before we ever shuffled a deck. The class had loved it so much that we started an after-school club, setting up metal chairs around a table and playing until the janitor kicked us out.

I didn’t need to look at Jagger for reassurance.

Cruz was still riding the high of his last hand; it showed in the way he tossed chips forward without hesitation. Maddox tightened up after a loss. Gage observed everyone but sometimes overanalyzed when the stakes climbed. Lawson concealed everything—until the very end.

The first three community cards hit the table, and I had to force myself not to smile. I added to the pot without pause.

Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “That was quick.”

“Should I stall for suspense?” I asked.

“Bluffing already,” Maddox muttered.

“I don’t bluff,” I said lightly.

Jagger’s hand settled against my knee beneath the table, and I had to forcefully ignore it so I wasn’t distracted. Another card turned, and Gage tapped his cards with his thumb. There it was . . . I matched his raise.

Lawson studied me, his gaze narrowing slightly. “You caught Gage.”

Gage looked up immediately. “Caught me doing what?”

I grinned, and Maddox’s mouth twitched. “You’ve been exposed.”

“I have not been exposed,” Gage said flatly.

Lawson folded his hands on the table. “You’ve got something you do.”

“I don’t do anything. It’s literally my job to not do anything,” Gage snapped, looking highly offended.

Jagger made a scoffing sound beside me, and Gage turned toward him. “Don’t encourage this.”

“I’m not,” Jagger replied, though the corner of his mouth said otherwise.

Gage pointed at me. “Are we talking an eye twitch? A lip bite? A weird breathing thing?”

“Everyone breathes weird,” Maddox said. “So that’s not it.”

I snorted and tucked my cards closer to my chest. “Let’s keep playing. I’m not telling you what you do because then you’ll fix it.”

Gage leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and pouting. “I don’t like this.”

“Yes, it’s tragic,” Cruz said as the final card landed.

Silence gathered over the table.

Cruz looked at the table. Then at me. Then back at the table again like it might rearrange itself out of pity.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

I laid my hand down without ceremony.

Maddox stared at the spread with visible irritation. Gage swore under his breath. Lawson gave me a small nod that felt less like surprise and more like acknowledgment.

“Well,” Cruz said slowly, pushing his chips toward me, “that’s unfortunate.”

I gathered the pot, stacking my winnings into a tower that was beginning to look excessive.

That made four. Four hands in a row.

Cruz dragged both hands down his face. “This is statistically offensive.”

“Technically—” I began.

“Don’t,” he cut in.

Maddox leaned back, studying me with renewed attention. “She isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

“She’s thinking,” Lawson corrected. “She’s just faster.”

Gage shook his head. “I’m being targeted.”

“You’re being outplayed,” Cruz replied.

I smiled faintly as I adjusted my stack.

Next to me, Jagger had gone quiet. He’d been loose and careless in the first two rounds—over-betting, chasing hands he shouldn’t have chased, throwing chips forward like they were decorative. If I had to guess, he probably lost an obscene amount of money in the high roller rooms on a regular basis.

He wasn’t bad at reading people, he was bad at patience. Which made this infinitely more satisfying.

Jagger wasn’t looking at the cards, though; he was watching me. His fingers brushed against my wrist as I reached forward again, the contact firm and claiming without drawing attention. He leaned closer, his mouth near my ear. “That’s enough.”

I turned my head slightly. “‘Enough’?”

“For tonight.”

Cruz caught the shift immediately. “What’s enough?”

Jagger sat back. “We’ve been playing for hours. We’re done for the evening.”

A wave of protest rose around the table.

“She doesn’t get to leave now,” Gage said.

Maddox nodded. “We were adjusting.”

“We were about to recover,” Lawson said smoothly.

Maddox pointed at Jagger. “You can’t pull her when she’s on a run.”

Jagger didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Watch me.”

Cruz leaned back in his chair, eyeing him with a knowing grin. “I’d actually say it’s way past time to go, don’t you think?”

Heat climbed up my neck at his implication, but Jagger just stood and offered me his hand. “They’ll make sure you’re cashed out,” he murmured, nodding at the guys, who were all giving us various versions of smirks.

Jagger’s hand settled at my waist as we stepped away from the table and walked toward the door.

“This isn’t over,” Cruz called after us.

I glanced back over my shoulder. “I look forward to taking all your money next time,” I said.

Laughter followed us from the room, but my focus was no longer divided between cards and competition.

All I could focus on was the heat of his body beside me, the way his stride matched mine perfectly . . . the way his thumb kept tracing that same slow circle over my skin like he couldn’t stop touching me.

We didn’t speak, but we didn’t need to. The promise was in every step, every brush of his hand, every glance he slid my way.

Whatever happened next . . . I was finally ready.

CHAPTER 29

EDEN

By the time we stepped off the private elevator into Jagger’s penthouse, the noise of the casino felt like a different world. Downstairs had been all laughter and chips clacking and Lawson loudly insisting he was “due” for a win. Up here, everything was . . . more.

The soft click of the elevator sealing shut behind us had my pulse kicking up hard, a frantic little rhythm that echoed in my ears, my throat, and between my legs. We were finally alone now, and there was no one to interrupt whatever happened next.

I felt his eyes trace the line of my spine through the thin fabric of the dress. It felt like a weight as it slid down to the small of my back and then lower, lingering on the curve of my ass.

“Your friends are really nice,” I spit out nervously as I slipped off my heels. “They’re ridiculous and over the top . . . and intense . . . but you can tell how much you all care for each other.”

“They liked you,” he murmured as he stepped up behind me and softly touched my waist. The touch was light, almost gentle, but the way his thumb stroked over the silk made my knees weaken.

“Did they?” I whispered.

He made a humming sound as his lips brushed the shell of my ear. I couldn’t help but shiver. “Why are you shaking, Eden?” he asked as he slowly licked along my skin.

I swallowed, trying to find my voice. “Because we’re going to . . . I mean, you’re probably wanting⁠—”

He pulled back just enough to turn me around. “You think I’m probably wanting what?” he asked. “To drag you straight to the bedroom? To rip that dress off and fuck you against the nearest wall?”

My cheeks burned. “Something like that.”

He smiled wickedly. “I could. I want to. Badly.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, tracing the neckline of the dress like he was already picturing it on the floor. “But I’m not going to.”

I blinked. “You’re . . . not?”

He shook his head, his thumb still stroking maddening circles on my hip. “Not yet.”

I stared at him, confused and aching and embarrassingly wet between my thighs. “Then . . . what?”

He leaned in, and his lips brushed mine in a barely there kiss that was just enough to make me chase him when he pulled back.

“We’re going to finish the game we were playing,” he said.

My brain short-circuited. “The . . . game?”

“The poker game,” he said lightly, seeming to enjoy the fact that I was malfunctioning because of him. “You were winning downstairs. I thought we should see how far that streak goes.”

I stood there staring at him because I was pretty sure he’d lost his mind. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

He held my gaze for one more charged second, then straightened and jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Come with me.”

My heart kicked again, but I followed him anyway. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

Jagger led me down a hallway he hadn’t shown me before and stopped in front of double doors at the end. He pushed them open, revealing a private poker room that made the one downstairs look like a dress rehearsal. A professional table sat in the center beneath soft recessed lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Strip in an insane rich-person backdrop.

“This seems to be a serious room for someone who only plays occasionally,” I murmured, walking toward the table.

“Did I say I play occasionally?” he asked as he moved past me to a built-in cabinet along the wall and slid open a drawer. From inside, he pulled out a fresh deck of cards, still sealed in cellophane. He peeled it off with unhurried precision, cracked the deck open, and then—without looking at his hands—began shuffling. Not the clumsy, overhand shuffle I’d been doing downstairs. He riffled the cards in the air, split the deck cleanly in two, and bridged them together with a soft snap that sounded almost like applause. The cards arced and settled with practiced ease, fluid and controlled.

I leaned against the table, watching his hands. “You were not doing that downstairs.”

“No,” he agreed as he shuffled again, this time letting the cards cascade from one hand to the other in a smooth ribbon. The way he said it sent a flicker of awareness through me.

“You’re hiding something,” I said.

He stepped around the table and pulled out my chair, waiting until I sat before moving to his own. “Maybe I was just being polite downstairs.”

“‘Polite,’” I repeated.

“With my friends,” he clarified.

“And now?”

He rested his forearms on the table, the deck poised between his fingers. “Now,” he said softly, “it’s just us.”

A thrill of danger moved through me, like I’d just realized I’d been playing in the shallow end and hadn’t noticed the deep water behind me. I tried to ignore how the chair felt cool against my overheated skin . . . how every shift of my thighs rubbed the lace of my thong against my swollen clit.

He shuffled the deck slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Last chance to back out,” he said softly.

I lifted my chin. “Deal,” I said.

Jagger dealt the cards with a lazy precision, the deck whispering across the felt. I picked up my two cards—an ace and king of the same suit—and felt a small flicker of confidence. I’d been winning downstairs. Maybe my streak wasn’t over.

He laid three cards face up in the middle of the table. One of them matched mine.

That was promising.

I tapped the table instead of betting right away, pretending I wasn’t pleased. He placed a small stack of chips in the center, and I matched it.

Jagger turned over another card.

My hand was still solid. Not unbeatable, but strong enough to keep me steady. This time I bet first, pushing a few chips forward like I was testing how far he’d follow me. He called immediately, no hesitation.

Then he revealed the final card.

I looked down at my cards again, then back up at him. “You’re bluffing,” I said, trying to sound confident instead of hopeful.

His expression didn’t change. “Am I?”

I studied him carefully, searching for something—any flicker of a twitch, a smirk, a tell I could latch on to. There was nothing. Downstairs he’d been easier to read . . . Up here, though, it was like he was carved from stone.

I exhaled slowly and pushed the rest of my chips forward. “Fine. I’m in.”

For a beat, he just looked at me. Then he leaned back slightly and turned his cards over.

A pair. That was it.

“That’s . . . that’s all you have?” I asked.

“That’s all I have.”

A surprised laugh bubbled out of me. I stared at my own hand, then placed it face up on the table. “Oh no,” I said sweetly, leaning back in my chair. “Did I just beat you again?”

He glanced at my cards, then back at me, unreadable. “Looks like it.”

I folded my arms smugly. “Maybe you’re just not very good.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Maybe.”

He held my gaze for a long second, then leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was the one laid out on the table. “All right,” he said casually. “Let’s up the stakes.”

My pulse jumped, but I kept my expression calm. “To what?”

His eyes dragged slowly over me. “Strip poker.”

The words hung between us, and I swallowed before I could stop myself. “That’s a shocking suggestion for someone who just lost.”

“Perhaps,” he said, that infuriatingly calm smirk back on his lips.

“And what happens when you lose again?” I asked.

He leaned forward slightly and shrugged. “Then I take something off.”

The image hit me before I could block it. Him standing slowly, fingers hooking the hem of his black Henley, dragging it up and over his head in one smooth, unhurried motion. The fabric peeling away to reveal the ink crawling across his chest and abs. Every hard line of muscle flexing under his tanned skin.

I shifted in my seat, feeling that same electric thrill I’d experienced a few minutes ago—the sense of stepping closer to the deep end on purpose.

“Fine,” I said softly. “Deal.”

His eyes darkened in a way that made my stomach flip.

CHAPTER 30

JAGGER

My poker room had always been one of my favorite areas in my penthouse and one of the reasons I’d bought it in the first place . . . but it was about to take the top spot after tonight.

Eden was still in the blue dress from the boutique, the one that clung to her curves like it had been sewn directly onto her skin. The neckline dipped low enough to make my fingers itch, the slit up one thigh high enough to tease every time she shifted.

She looked like she’d walked straight out of my fantasies and into my apartment . . . and she had no idea how much danger she was in.

Eden picked up her cards, bit her lip, and glanced at me through her lashes. “Let’s go, Thatcher.”

I smiled, thinking it was cute how she was trying to act so brave. “I’m ready.”

The whole time we’d played downstairs, the guys had kept shooting me confused looks—side-eye after side-eye, brows furrowed, unable to figure out why the best poker player in the room was suddenly playing like a drunk tourist.

Cruz had even leaned over at one point and muttered, “This is not going to get you laid, Jags,” while Maddox just stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. They knew I could read a table blindfolded. They knew I never folded winners. And yet there I was, folding premium hands, calling with trash, letting pots slip away.

I’d wanted Eden to win. I wanted her confident, bold . . . a little smug.

It was going to make this game so much better.

I dealt the flop, the cards gliding across the felt in smooth, controlled arcs. Eden tapped the table, feigning indifference. I did the same, keeping the pace unhurried. The next card turned over, and this time she straightened slightly, something sharpening in her eyes. She placed a tidy stack of chips into the center confidently, her fingers steady, her expression carefully neutral.

I called without breaking eye contact.

The final card turned over, and her pupils widened just slightly. She had something. Not huge, but enough to make her feel good.

She pushed more chips forward confidently.

“You’re comfortable,” I observed.

“You’re predictable,” she shot back.

“Am I?”

“Yes. When you’ve got a strong hand, you get quiet.”

I almost laughed at that. I’d been quiet all night.

I met her bet and then raised it—enough to make her have to prove whether she believed in herself.

She didn’t hesitate. “All in,” she said, sliding the rest of her chips forward with a lift of her chin.

There it was. The boldness I’d been building.

I leaned back, studying her. “You sure?”

“Very.”

I turned my cards over first this time. Three of a kind.

Her eyes dropped to the table, then slowly to her own hand. She flipped them over, revealing two high cards but no pair.

She blinked and let out a disbelieving huff. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

She looked back up at me, accusation flickering there. “You were baiting me.”

“Maybe.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, the fabric of her dress shifting just enough to remind me what was about to happen.

“Strip,” I rasped.

Eden exhaled through her nose, cheeks pinking, but she didn’t argue. She stood slowly, her fingers fumbling for the zipper at her back. The quiet brush of it sliding down filled the room, and her dress slipped off her shoulders, down her arms . . . over her hips. The dress pooled at her feet in a soft, blue puddle.

And there it was—the black lace lingerie I’d caught her in at the boutique, the one I’d assumed she’d taken off in the dressing room.

All the blood in my body rushed straight to my cock.

I had to shift in my chair to keep from groaning out loud. My mouth went dry. My vision narrowed until all I could see was her—her flushed cheeks, the way her nipples tightened further under my stare, the soft quiver in her thighs as she tried to press them together like that could hide how wet she was.

She flushed deeper and tried to pretend she had some dignity left, crossing her arms briefly over her breasts before dropping them again, her chin lifting as she tried to refuse to be shy. Her eyes betrayed her, though, glittering with the same heat I felt scorching through my veins.

Eden tilted her head, a teasing little smile suddenly tugging at her lips. “You going to be able to play like this?” she asked mischievously. “Or should we stop before you embarrass yourself?”

I grinned, letting her see every ounce of hunger I wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “Oh, I can play, baby. The question is, will you be able to win even one more time when I’m not holding back?”

Her smile faltered for half a second before she forced a grin. “Let’s go, Thatcher.”

We did . . . and she lost again. Her garters were the next victim.

She stood, her hands clearly shaking as she reached for the lace garter circling her thigh. It wasn’t attached to anything—just a delicate band of black lace hugging her skin. She slid her fingers beneath it and eased it down, inch by inch, the fabric dragging lightly over her leg.

When she finally let it fall to the ground, she met my eyes, and I adjusted myself openly, palming my cock through my jeans and making sure she couldn’t miss the way they were straining to hold me in. “I’m dying thinking about your wet pussy gushing all over my leather chair,” I growled, nodding my head at the dark spot blooming across the front of her black lace thong.

The thin fabric had turned sheer where her arousal soaked through, clinging transparently to her swollen folds, outlining the shape of her lips and the little hood of her clit pressing against it. Slick glistened along the edges, a thin trail already threatening to drip down the inside of her thigh.

She followed my gaze, her cheeks flaming crimson as she realized what I was seeing. She swallowed, attempting composure, but her blush only deepened—spilling down her throat and across her chest.

Eden sat down, and I dealt the next hand.

Of course she lost again . . .

This time she didn’t even look surprised. She just stared at the table for a long second, then lifted her eyes to mine slowly, accusation simmering beneath the heat.

“You’ve been playing me,” she said.

I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms loosely. “Of course I have.”

Her brows drew together. “You let me win downstairs.”

“I did.”

“So I’d feel confident.”

“Yes.”

“So I’d push.”

“Yes.”

She huffed out a breath, shaking her head. “That is . . . insanely manipulative.”

I gave her an unapologetic smile. “It’s poker, Eden.”

“No.” She pointed a finger at me. “It’s you. This doesn’t feel ethical.”

I let out a low chuckle and leaned forward.

“‘Ethical,’” I repeated, like I’d never heard the word. “I think it would be accurate to say that ethical is the antithesis of who I am.”

She stared at me for half a beat, thinking I was joking—I was not, of course . . . and laughed.

Eden was still laughing as she stood up again and pushed her thong down her hips, slow enough that I was literally gripping the table until my knuckles whitened. The thong slid over her thighs and calves and then pooled at her feet.

My dick felt like it might split straight through my jeans as she sat back down, leaned back in the chair, and gave me a look at exactly what she knew I wanted.

And I did look . . . at every fucking inch.

The swell of her breasts was framed fucking perfectly by the lace bra, and her nipples were straining visibly against the sheer cups. She was flushed everywhere: her cheeks, her chest, the tops of her thighs.

Fuck.

Eden took a deep breath . . . caught between nerves and, hopefully, excitement. “Deal the cards, Thatcher. Let’s finish this.”

“Gladly,” I growled.

The next hand played out slow and tense. She looked down at her two cards, and I could tell she liked what she saw. When I laid the first three cards face up in the center of the table, they were all low numbers. Not great for her.

She bet anyway, and I raised.

Eden hesitated, her eyes lifting to my face, searching for something—any crack in my expression that might tell her whether I was strong or just pushing her around.

She called.

I turned over the fourth card, and she tapped the table, choosing not to bet first. I pushed a larger stack of chips into the middle, and her jaw tightened.

After a second, she called again, biting her lip as she tried to decide whether she trusted her instincts . . . or me. Finally, she pushed all her chips forward—going all in.

I called and flipped my cards. A straight flush.

Eden stared at her jacks—still just a pair—and let out a soft, defeated laugh that was somehow the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.

“Last piece,” I said quietly.

She stood, keeping her eyes locked with mine as she reached behind her back. The clasp of her bra gave with a soft click, and the straps slipped off her shoulders. She held the cups in place for a heartbeat, teasing me because she knew I was fucking losing my mind . . . then let the bra fall.

I groaned low in my throat, the sound rough and involuntary as my eyes raked over her naked body—every curve flushed and trembling, her breasts rising and falling with shallow breaths, nipples tight and begging, the slick shine between her thighs impossible to ignore. She stood there, bare and exposed, trying to hold herself together, but the way her thighs pressed together only made the wetness glisten more, a dark invitation that had my cock throbbing painfully against my zipper.

I let the silence stretch between us, watching the way it made her shift, small, restless movements that betrayed her. Her cheeks burned brighter, her breathing quickened, and she bit her lip like she was fighting not to beg.

Then I crooked one finger. “Crawl to me.”

Her eyes widened, her pupils blowing out in a rush of shock and disbelief. “What?”

“You heard me.” My voice dropped lower, rougher, the edge of a command wrapped in velvet. “Crawl, Eden. I dare you.”

She stared at me, frozen for a long heartbeat, her chest heaving, and her nipples tightening further under my gaze. The air between us crackled—thick with tension, with need, with the unspoken knowledge that whatever happened next would change everything.

I almost came right then at the thought.

She finally moved.

Eden got up on the table and sank slowly to her hands and knees, her palms pressing into the green felt. She crawled toward me, her knees sliding over the smooth table, and her hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her ass lift and sway with every advance. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder, brushing her breasts as they swung beneath her, her nipples dragging across the felt in teasing little trails that left her gasping softly.

When she reached the edge, I caught her under the arms and pulled her into my lap so she was straddling me, her bare pussy pressing hot and wet against the hard length of my cock through my jeans.

She gasped, and I groaned.

Her slick folds glided along the length of me, soaking my jeans in seconds. The heat of her cunt was searing through the fabric, every small shift of her hips dragging her clit over the hard outline of me, making us both shudder.

She rocked again—faster now, more insistent—coating me in her heat as her thighs trembled around my hips and she found a rhythm that made her breath hitch and her fingers dig into my shoulders.

I gripped her hips, holding her still for a moment, and letting her feel how thick and hard I was beneath her . . . how desperately I wanted to be inside her.

“Look at you,” I murmured, my eyes locked on hers. “Naked in my lap, dripping all over me. You’re ruining me, baby. And I haven’t even taken my clothes off yet.”

Her breath hitched, and her eyes fluttered half shut in a dazed, needy haze.

I hissed through my teeth when she moved again, and my hips jerked up on instinct, pressing my cock harder against her.

“Ride me,” I commanded. “Right fucking now. Spread those pretty thighs wide and ride the seam of my jeans until you come all over me. Grind that swollen clit against the rough zipper, baby. Rub your dripping cunt up and down my cock through the denim until you’re soaking my pants, until you’re screaming my name and gushing like you can’t fucking help it.”

Her eyes widened, shock, heat, and need all flashing through them at once.

Eden hesitated for half a heartbeat, long enough for me to see the fresh rush of slick glistening between her legs . . . and then she obeyed.

She shifted forward, straddling the hard ridge of my zipper so that her bare pussy lips parted around the thick seam. The sight alone nearly killed me—her swollen folds spreading open over the rough fabric, coating the dark blue of my jeans with every tiny roll of her hips. I could see everything: the way her clit peeked out, flushed and throbbing, catching on the metal teeth with every slow drag; the way her arousal shone wet along the inner edges of her lips, dripping down to darken the material in a spreading patch that made my cock ache painfully beneath her.

I could feel the searing heat of her cunt bleeding through the fabric. The wet friction was maddening, and when she whimpered and arched her back, I couldn’t help it. I leaned forward, one arm banding around her to keep her pinned against me, and closed my mouth over her nipple. The moment my lips sealed around it, she jerked as if I’d shocked her. I sucked hard, drawing the sensitive bud deep, my tongue swirling over the tip while my teeth grazed just enough to make her gasp.

Eden cried out, her fingers twisting in my hair and yanking me closer. Her hips stuttered against my zipper, grinding faster. She was dripping all over me, marking my jeans like she was claiming territory. I groaned into her skin, the vibration rumbling straight through her nipple, and I sucked harder, pulling and flicking at the stiff peak until it was swollen and glistening with my spit.

“Jagger—” Her voice cracked on my name, half plea, half sob. “Please⁠—”

I released her nipple with a wet pop, my lips brushing the wet peak as I spoke against her skin. “Please what, baby?” I rasped. “Please make you come again? Please fuck you until you can’t walk? Or please keep sucking these pretty tits while you ride my cock through my pants like a good girl?”

She moaned, and her hips bucked harder as she dragged her clit frantically along my seam.

I caught her other nipple between my teeth, then sucked it deep, my tongue lashing the tip while my hand slid between us to press the heel of my palm against her clit, giving her more friction against the rough denim.

“Come on,” I growled around her nipple. “Soak me. Drench my jeans. Let me feel that tight little pussy pulse while you come apart on my lap.”

Her cry turned raw, and her body seized as she came. She rode it out, grinding down hard, her hips jerking and her breasts bouncing against my face while I kept sucking and licking . . . claiming every inch of her I could reach.

When she finally collapsed against me with a gasp, I released her nipple and kissed the flushed skin, then her throat, then her mouth, tasting the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her surrender.

I pulled back just enough to meet her glassy eyes. “Good girl,” I whispered as I brushed my thumb against her swollen lower lip. “Now, let’s see how much louder you get when I finally fuck you for real.”

Lifting her onto the poker table in one smooth motion, I set her down on the green felt with her ass perched right at the edge. Her legs parted instinctively as I stepped between them, my hands sliding up her thighs to grip and spread her wide—wide enough that her slick pink pussy opened for me, her arousal already dripping down to wet the table beneath her.

Eden braced her elbows behind her, a move that made her breasts thrust forward and only added to the perfection of what I was seeing. Her eyes were wide and locked on mine with that perfect mix of nerves and hunger that made my cock throb harder.

Standing between her spread thighs . . . I took her in. She was a fucking vision. I was the luckiest motherfucker alive.

I reached down and unbuttoned my jeans, taking my time so she could watch the slow release, the fabric parting inch by inch until the thick length of me strained against the open fly. The zipper rasped down, and I shoved it low enough to free my cock. Eden’s breath hitched audibly as it sprang out, the long shaft ridged with prominent veins that pulsed visibly beneath the skin. The silver barbell piercing through the swollen head caught the light with a wicked gleam, and a fat bead of precum welled at the slit, sliding down in a slow, glossy trail along the underside. I watched as her pussy clenched, and more slick leaked out to pool on the felt.

Wrapping my fist around my cock, I stroked slowly up and down, watching her eyes track every movement. Precum slicked my hand, making the glide smooth and easy. I stroked again, slower this time. Letting her see how thick I was.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” I rasped. “Look at how fucking hard you’ve made me. I want you so fucking bad.”

She whimpered and shifted her hips forward on the felt, trying to get more friction.

I stroked faster, my eyes never leaving her body. “Your pussy’s dripping on my table, baby. You’re making a mess. You like that? Do you like knowing you’re soaking my felt while I stroke my cock right in front of you?”

Her head fell back slightly, a soft moan slipping out.

I stepped closer, gripping the base of my cock and lining it up against her slit. The thick head nudged her swollen folds, parting them just enough to tease—sliding through her slick heat without pushing inside. The piercing caught on her clit with every slow drag forward, and she gasped and arched toward me, chasing the pressure . . . the stretch she was dying for but wasn’t getting yet.

Her thighs trembled around my hips, and her breath hitched in little pants as I rocked against her, coating myself in her wetness and letting her feel every inch of me gliding along her entrance without giving her what she needed most.

Her hand moved between her legs, and I caught her wrist so she couldn’t touch herself . . . yet.

“Please,” she begged as tears gathered in her eyes because she was so desperate to be fucked.

“Since you asked so nicely,” I murmured, keeping my grip on her wrist and leading it toward her core. I watched as her fingers disappeared inside her slit and then slid back out shiny with her arousal.

“Fuck,” I breathed. “Look at that. Look at how greedy your cunt is. Taking your fingers like it wants my cock.”

Eden whimpered again and began fucking herself faster as her hips lifted off the table. Her moans grew louder and breathier as she chased the high.

“No,” she cried desperately as I suddenly pulled on her wrist and yanked her fingers free with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet room.

Bringing her hand to my mouth, my eyes locked on hers as I sucked her fingers clean, making sure my tongue swirled around each one so I could get every drop. I moaned low in my throat, letting her see how much I loved it, how much I needed it.

The taste snapped something in me.

I couldn’t wait any longer.

Gripping my cock, I lined it up at her entrance and nudged the thick head against her swollen folds. With my other hand, I spread her pussy lips apart—pulling them wide so I could watch every inch of her open for me.

I pushed in.

Just the head at first—enough to let her feel the stretch, the way her body opened around me, hot and impossibly tight, her inner walls fluttering like they were already desperate to pull me deeper.

“Jagger,” she breathed, and something in the way she said my name made me look up immediately.

Her eyes met mine, and I could see it clearly . . . the fear she was trying so hard to bury. Not fear of me or my body or the way I held her. Fear of what this meant. Of how much she was giving up. Of how much she stood to lose.

She wasn’t afraid of the act itself.

She was afraid of believing in it.

I slowed without breaking contact, lifting one hand from her hip and sliding it up her body until my palm settled over her throat. I soothed the frantic flutter of her pulse with my thumb, feeling every wild beat like it was my own.

“I know,” I said quietly, because I did. I knew exactly what was crashing through her head. That she was too exposed. Too open. That she’d stepped off a ledge she couldn’t climb back from. That if I walked away now, the fall would shatter her in ways Ryan’s betrayal never had.

I tightened my grip. “This isn’t a game,” I told her. “Not to me.”

Her lips parted on a silent breath.

“This means everything to me,” I continued. “You. Right here. This moment. The way you’re letting me in even though every instinct is screaming at you to run.”

Her eyes stayed locked on mine.

“I’m not going to let you go,” I said. “I’m not going to disappear. I’m not going to break the promises I’ve made to you—even the ones I haven’t said out loud yet.”

The fear in her eyes wavered, warring with something fragile and hopeful, something she hadn’t let herself feel in so long it looked painful.

“I will never make you regret this,” I finished, softer now, my thumb still stroking her pulse. “Do you understand me?”

For a long, aching second she just looked at me—searching, weighing, deciding. And then she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered.

And that single word felt like the heaviest thing I’d ever carried.

I kissed her, trying to pour every unspoken vow into the press of my lips against hers. She kissed me back with the same fragile intensity, her fingers tightening in my shirt, her body arching into mine like she was finally allowing herself to fall.

I didn’t rush. I didn’t push. I just held her and let her feel the truth in every slow slide of my tongue.

Because she was right to be afraid. But she was also right to trust. And I was going to spend the rest of my life proving it.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured, and her fingers relaxed in my shirt.

When I moved again, I did it slowly, letting her feel the stretch and how my piercing dragged along her walls. Eden gasped, and her back arched off the table, her breasts thrusting forward as I sank deeper. She was so fucking tight, sucking me in like her body was trying to pull me in forever.

I kept my eyes on hers the whole time, refusing to let her disappear into the intensity of it. “Stay with me,” I said quietly.

“I can’t—” She gasped as she shifted her hips, trying to take more of me. “I . . . it’s too much.”

I paused, giving her a moment to adjust, even though it felt like I might die in the process. My hand slid up her thigh, and I brushed the sensitive skin just below her hip. “You’re doing so good, baby,” I murmured, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth. “So fucking good. Look at you—taking me like this, letting me fill you up. You feel incredible.”

Her breath hitched, and her lashes trembled as she stared up at me, soft and unfocused, like she was seeing me for the first time and couldn’t quite believe I was real.

“You can take more,” I whispered against her lips, rocking my hips as I inched farther into her tight cunt. “You’re made for this. Made for me. Just breathe, Eden. Let me in.”

She whimpered and dug her fingers into my shoulders, but her hips lifted and met my next shallow thrust.

“That’s it,” I praised, my voice rough with pride and need. “Good girl. Just like that. You’re taking me so perfectly— Fuck, you’re amazing.”

I rolled my hips in a way that made her moan . . . and she finally began to relax around me. Her legs tightened at my waist, drawing me closer and urging me deeper.

“See?” I kissed her throat, sucking lightly at her pulse. “You can take all of me, every inch, every thrust. You’re safe with me, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rocking her hips up to meet mine. “I’m safe.”

“That’s right,” I groaned as I finally bottomed out and buried myself in her heat.

Holy fuck. Being inside her was unlike anything I’d ever felt.

She enveloped me completely—somehow molding around every ridge and vein. The fit was perfect and seamless, like her body had been waiting for mine, like every inch of me belonged exactly here, buried to the root in her warmth. The piercing pressed against her inner walls, catching and dragging with each slow withdrawal, sending tremors through both of us as I pushed back in, filling her again and again.

It was overwhelming.

Every pulse of her around me felt intimate and alive, like she was breathing me in, holding me close, refusing to let go. The way she fluttered and rippled when I bottomed out, the subtle shift of her muscles gripping and releasing in waves—it was heaven and torment at once. I could feel her everywhere: the gentle squeeze when she exhaled, the soft clench when she inhaled, the way her body seemed to sigh around me like it had finally come home.

I moved—slow, deep rolls of my hips—and each glide felt like sinking into something sacred, something made for me alone. Her breath hitched with every thrust, a small sound that vibrated through her and straight into me. I could feel the quiver when I hit that spot inside her, the way her walls hugged me tighter, pulling me in like she needed me there, needed me deeper, needed me to stay.

It was more than physical. It was possession. It was belonging. It was the feeling of finally being exactly where I was meant to be . . . buried inside the woman who owned me as much as I owned her.

And I never wanted to leave.

I pulled out almost all the way, watching my cock slide free, glistening with her arousal, before driving back in hard, filling her completely again in one deep, claiming thrust. Eden cried out and dug her nails in my arms as I set a rhythm, deep strokes that made her breasts bounce, the soft weight of them swaying in perfect time with my hips. Her eyes rolled back as I hit that spot inside her, over and over again, my piercing dragging along her front wall and adding friction that had her shaking.

Something dark and feral twisted in my chest. The thought hit without warning, violent and irrational.

Someone else had touched her like this. Someone else had stood where I stood. She’d worn a ring for another man. Shared a bed. Shared pieces of herself that should have been mine.

It made my jaw clench so hard I felt it in my temples.

I hated it. I hated that there had been a before. I hated that I hadn’t known her from the moment I opened my eyes for the first time in this world. If I had, I would’ve found her. I would’ve tracked her down before anyone else ever got close enough to lay a hand on her.

The idea that she’d once been married felt wrong. Like a clerical error in the universe.

She wasn’t supposed to have a history that didn’t include me.

I bent closer and slid my hand into her hair, tilting her face back so she had to look at me.

“Feel that?” I said through gritted teeth. “That’s me owning you. Every inch of this cunt. Every moan that leaves your pretty mouth. Every fucking orgasm. No one else ever existed inside you but fucking me. You. Are. Mine.”

I pulled out almost all the way, letting her feel the loss . . . the emptiness, and then slammed back in so she cried out and her nails raked down my shirt.

“I’m fucking every last memory out of you,” I said against her throat as I sank my teeth into the soft skin there, sucking a bruise into place. “Every time I slide into this pussy, I’m erasing whoever came before. Every time you come around my cock, you forget what anyone else ever felt like. Every time you scream my name, you’re screaming over the ghosts of anyone who ever touched you. There’s nothing left for you but me . . . the only thing your body remembers is me—my shape, my taste, my cum—filling you up until it drips down your thighs.”

She nodded frantically, her legs wrapping around my hips and pulling me deeper. “Yours,” she gasped, her voice breaking on the word, and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as pleasure and emotion crashed together. “Yours—Jagger—yours⁠—”

I fucked her harder and reached one hand between us so I could rub her clit while my other hand pinned her hip to the table.

Eden broke first.

Her cry ripped out, and her whole body seized as pleasure detonated through her. Her pussy clamped down around my cock, milking me with frantic little contractions that pulled me right to the edge with her. Her thighs quaked around my waist as her release tore through her and slick flooded around my shaft, dripping down my balls and soaking the felt beneath her ass.

I groaned against her throat and grazed her pulse with my teeth again as I fucked her through it, trying to prolong every shudder, every clench, every broken sound she made.

Eden was still trembling when I finally buried myself to the hilt and came, spilling deep inside her until it leaked out around my cock, mixing with her release and dripping out. I held her there, our hips flush together, and let her feel every twitch and spurt as I marked her from the inside.

When the last tremor faded, I collapsed over her and pressed my forehead against hers. She was shaking beneath me, tears still slipping down her cheeks, but her arms wrapped around my neck like she never wanted to let go. “I never knew it could be like this,” she whispered.

“Like what?” I asked as I reverently kissed her tears away before pulling back to meet her eyes.

She swallowed and searched my eyes, still deciding how much to give.

“Like I’m safe,” she whispered. “Like being wanted isn’t the same thing as being used. Like I can let go and not fall apart . . . because you’ll catch me.”

Her voice broke on the last word, fresh tears slipping free, but she didn’t look away. “Like you weren’t going to break me the second I let myself feel it.”

“Eden,” I groaned.

“I think I want you to keep me, Jagger.”

I grinned and rolled my hips against hers until she gasped. “You never had another choice.”

CHAPTER 31

EDEN

My body ached in places I hadn’t known could ache, with a deep, delicious soreness between my thighs, a faint burn along my inner muscles, and tender spots on my hips where his fingers had gripped too hard. My breasts felt heavy and sensitive, and my nipples were slightly swollen from his mouth. My lips were puffy, and when I swallowed, I realized my throat hurt from crying out his name too many times to count.

I shifted beneath the covers, and the silk sheets slid over my skin in a cool, liquid glide that made me inhale softly. I was naked . . . completely naked. And I was happy.

The realization was like a burst of sunlight—radiant and warm and almost too bright to look at directly. I hadn’t woken up alone. I hadn’t woken up upset. For the first time in years, I didn’t brace for disappointment the second my eyes opened.

Something soft dragged along my side, a slow, featherlight trail from my ribs to my waist, then up again, tracing the curve under my breast. I shivered, my skin pebbling instantly.

My breath caught, and I opened my eyes.

Jagger was propped on one elbow beside me, watching my face with a quiet intensity. In his other hand he held a single red rose, long-stemmed with petals that were velvet-soft and perfect. He dragged the bloom down my stomach now slowly, the cool silk of the petals making me arch into the touch.

“Morning,” he murmured in a voice still rough from sleep and sex and everything we’d done to each other last night.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how exposed I was with my legs tangled in the sheets, my breasts bare . . . and my thighs still sticky with him.

“Morning,” I whispered back as I flushed under his gaze.

He smiled and continued his lazy path with the rose. Up the underside of one breast, circling the areola without quite touching the nipple. My breath shuddered out and the nipple tightened, aching for more.

I watched the rose move, the petals brushing my skin in teasing trails, and a small, breathless laugh escaped me.

“Is that still considered a friendship rose?” I teased, remembering the first time he’d given me roses.

Jagger’s eyes darkened instantly, and he smirked. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “And spoiler alert . . . those first roses weren’t, either.”

Before I could respond, he leaned down and closed his mouth over one nipple, sucking the peak deep with a slow pull that made my back arch and a moan tear from my throat.

I was so sensitive after last night.

At the same time, he dragged the rose petals lower, sliding them through my folds and brushing my swollen clit in tender strokes that made my hips jerk and my thighs tremble.

I gasped his name and twisted my fingers in the sheets as I tried to hold myself together.

Jagger released my nipple with a wet pop, kissed the flushed peak once more, and then lifted his head to meet my eyes. “We’re never going to do friendship again,” he promised.

I was finding I was all right with that.

He kissed me then, his tongue sliding against mine as the rose continued its teasing path between my legs.

After a few minutes of exquisite torture and one smooth, shuddering orgasm, Jagger finally pulled back. He slipped out of bed without a word, not bothering to cover himself as he walked naked across the room. Every step flexed the lean, sculpted muscles of his back, intricate tattoos rippling over his shoulders and down his spine like living shadows. His ass was firm and perfect, and my mouth watered just staring at it. His cock was fully erect and swaying slightly with each stride. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of heat curling through me, my nipples tightening all over again as I watched him move.

“Where are you going?” I called softly.

He paused in the doorway and glanced back over his shoulder. That slow, wicked grin spread across his face, the one that always made my stomach flip. “Gotta feed you, baby,” he said.

My gaze dipped involuntarily—down the strong line of his back and back over the curve of his ass. His grin widened when he caught me looking. “Later,” he murmured, the word dripping with dark intent.

After a few minutes, he returned carrying a tray of strawberries, a small bowl of whipped cream, another of fresh cream, and coffee steaming in two mugs. He set it on the nightstand and climbed back onto the mattress, settling beside me.

He picked up a strawberry slice, dipped it in the cream, and held it to my lips. “Open,” he murmured . . . Of course I obeyed immediately.

The fruit was sweet and cold, and the whipped cream was rich and smooth against my tongue. He watched me chew, his eyes dark and focused, and then he leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth, licking away a stray drop of cream.

“Delicious,” he said against my lips, and I writhed beneath him, hazily wondering if there was a legal cap on the number of orgasms a person could survive in a single day.

He fed me another strawberry, then another. Between bites, he kissed me—soft at first, then deeper, tasting the sweetness on my tongue. His hand slid to my waist, and his thumb stroked the sensitive skin there before drifting higher and cupping my breast. He softly flicked my nipple until it tightened under his touch.

I moaned softly into his mouth.

He pulled back with hooded eyes and picked up another strawberry. This time he dragged it slowly down my throat and between my breasts, circling one nipple until it pebbled harder, then lower, tracing the line of my stomach. When he reached the apex of my thighs, he paused, and his eyes met mine.

“Open for me,” he said quietly.

I parted my thighs, heart pounding.

Jagger dragged the strawberry through my folds, slow and teasing as he coated it in my arousal, and then he brought it to my lips. “Taste,” he ordered.

I opened my mouth and tasted the sweet berry mixed with my own salt and heat. I moaned again, louder this time.

Jagger groaned and leaned down to lick the trail he’d made. His tongue followed the sticky path from my clit up to my stomach, then back down again. He sucked the berry from my lips and kissed me deep, letting me taste us together.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered against my mouth. “So fucking perfect.”

He fed me the last strawberry the same way—dragging it through my wetness, feeding it to me, then licking me clean while I trembled and gasped beneath him.

When the plate was empty, he set it aside and pulled me into his arms, tucking me against his chest. His hand settled on my lower back, and his thumb stroked slow circles over my spine.

We lay like that for a long time, skin to skin . . . our hearts beating together. “I haven’t even asked you yet,” he suddenly murmured. “Do you like your new clothes?”

The question caught me off guard because it felt like a lifetime had passed since he’d taken me to that boutique. Literally.

“I love them,” I said instantly, because how could I not love them? Jagger had basically given me every girl’s dream moment.

His fingers brushed against my shoulder, and it reminded me of how the saleswoman had adjusted my clothes . . . and also what she’d said.

“The woman at L’Étoile yesterday,” I said, pursing my lips as I thought about the strange conversation.

“What about her?” he murmured, brushing kisses down my arms.

“At one point she got a little weird.”

Jagger’s lips paused on my skin. “Oh? What did she say? Do I need to get her fired?”

I huffed a laugh and twisted in his arms until I was facing him fully, bracing my hands against his chest. “Absolutely not,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

He only grinned—completely unrepentant and completely serious about the offer.

“She started talking about things like needing a certain disposition to stand beside powerful men.” I hesitated. “Then she asked if you’d told me about everything you and your friends own. I told her it wasn’t really my business, and she said that ‘that’s usually how it begins.’ It felt like she was trying to warn me about something.”

Jagger was quiet for a moment, considering. “Hmm,” he said finally. “She was probably referencing the casinos. We own more than one. And when you control that much real estate in this city, people talk.” His shoulder lifted slightly. “There are always rumors when you have things other people want.”

I searched his face for something darker, something hidden. But he looked perfectly calm.

“That makes sense,” I said slowly, nodding. And it did. Power attracted speculation. That wasn’t exactly groundbreaking.

He brushed my cheek soothingly. “It’s going to happen a lot,” he added. “People saying things. Hinting at things. Acting like they know more than they do.” Jagger’s gaze held mine unflinchingly. “The only thing that matters,” he said quietly, “is that I belong to you. Completely . . . And you belong to me.”

The words didn’t feel light or casual . . . They felt binding. Like invisible ink suddenly turning visible under heat, revealing a contract I hadn’t known I’d signed until this moment. Tears gathered in my eyes, blurring him at the edges as he brushed a worshipful kiss against my lips.

“I don’t want to own you the way I own everything else, though,” he said. “I want to belong to you. I want you to own me. My time. My thoughts. My fucking soul. If you’ll have me.” He closed his eyes like the confession had cost him something vital, and when he opened them again, those brown depths were burning. “Say you’ll have me, Eden.”

My throat closed as my tears slipped free, trailing warm paths down my cheeks. I searched his face and saw only truth. No games. No manipulation. Just him in a way I’d never seen before.

I lifted my hand, cupped his jaw, and traced the faint stubble along his cheek. “I’ll have you,” I whispered. “All of you.”

Relief crashed across his features, the release of a man who’d been holding his breath for years and finally let it go. His forehead pressed to mine, and his eyes closed again as a shudder moved through him.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed roughly. He kissed me again, like he was trying to pour every unspoken vow into the press of his lips against mine. I kissed him back with the same fragile intensity, sliding my hands into his hair and pulling him closer until there was no space left between us. The tears kept coming, but they weren’t the sad kind.

They were from relief.

From finally letting myself want something—someone—and believing I might actually not be disappointed by it.

When he drew back, he rested his forehead against mine again, breathing hard.

“I—” He stopped himself, his throat working. The word hung there, unfinished, but I heard it anyway. I felt it. The almost-confession he swallowed back because we both knew it was too big and too soon to say out loud yet.

He exhaled shakily, then shifted above me, guiding me gently down until my back met the silk sheets. The cool fabric kissed my overheated skin as he settled between my thighs, his weight braced on his forearms so he didn’t crush me. His eyes searched mine—dark, intense, almost pleading—as he nudged my legs wider with his hips.

Jagger lined himself up slowly, the thick head of his cock brushing my entrance. I felt the stretch begin again, that perfect, aching fullness as he pushed in until he was seated deep. I gasped at the sensation, and my walls throbbed around him, still sensitive from earlier.

And as he began to move, pushing me toward pleasure with every roll of his hips, I couldn’t help but wish that he’d said it . . .

Because I was falling in love with him, too.

Jagger

I lay on my side, propped on one elbow, watching Eden sleep.

The Vegas lights coming in from the windows reflected on her face, catching on her dark lashes, the faint freckles across her nose, and her swollen lips. She was curled toward me, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting loosely on my chest like she’d claimed the spot even in dreams. Her breathing was slow and even, peaceful in a way I’d never seen on her before.

And that made the rage in my chest burn even hotter.

Claudia’s voice kept playing in my head, her Irish curl telling Eden not to trust me. I may not have been present, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the scene.

I wanted her to die all over again.

I wanted to walk back into that boutique, drag her into the back room by her perfect chignon, and peel her apart the way Gage had taught me. Cyanide had been too easy of a death.

I was well aware that my enemies were going to try to get to Eden. I just hadn’t foreseen it being while she was trying on lingerie. The question in her eyes this afternoon . . . I never wanted to see it again.

Yes, I was well aware that there were all sorts of things that Eden should question me about, and there were all kinds of reasons that she shouldn’t trust me.

I just didn’t give a fuck.

Brushing my fingers against her cheek, I traced the line of her jaw before resting my thumb on the soft pulse in her throat. She sighed in her sleep and turned her face into my palm. The rage quieted . . . a little. Until I thought about what I’d do if anyone ever actually got to her and she tried to leave me.

I could see it clearly . . . Eden packing a bag in secret, slipping out the door while I was in a meeting, disappearing into the city with nothing but a phone and whatever cash she could scrape together. I could picture her looking over her shoulder, heart pounding, waiting for me to find her. Because I would. I always would.

I’d track her phone first. I’d had that software installed since before I gave it to her. Then I’d use the cameras on every corner of the Strip, the facial recognition we’d paid a fortune to have back-doored into the city’s system, and I’d have her location within minutes. There would be men on every exit out of Vegas before she even reached the city limits.

And if she somehow slipped through—if she got on a plane, if she changed her name, if she hid in some small town in the middle of nowhere—I’d still find her.

I’d tear the world apart looking for her.

I’d burn every bridge she tried to cross, bribe every landlord who rented to her, and threaten every friend who tried to shelter her. I’d make sure there was nowhere left for her to run. I’d make sure every door she knocked on led back to me.

The minute I found her—because I would find her, no matter how far she ran—I’d throw her over my shoulder and haul her back to the penthouse, and back to the bed where she belonged. I’d lock the doors and I’d chain her to the bed if that’s what it took until she stopped fighting and started remembering how good it felt to be mine.

I’d remind her every day. Every hour. Every minute.

I’d make her come so many times she’d lose count until her body craved me like air, until every time she tried to stand, her legs gave out and she fell back into my arms.

I’d feed her. Hold her. Whisper promises in her ear while I was buried deep inside her. I’d show her the world from the windows, but never let her step outside until she understood that the world out there was nothing compared to the one I’d build for us.

I’d break her down piece by piece.

Until the doubt was gone.

Until the fear was replaced with need.

Until she gave in and accepted her fate—accepted that she was mine, that leaving wasn’t an option, that her place was here, in my bed, in my arms, in my life.

Until she looked at me and saw not a monster, but the only man who’d ever loved her enough to never let her go.

And if that made me a villain . . .

So be it.

I’d be her villain.

As long as I was hers.

Well . . . that had been a trip down psycho lane. But I guess at least I had a plan in place.

I dragged a hand down my face and huffed out a quiet breath. Fucking hell. If anyone could hear the way my brain spiraled when it came to her, they’d stage an intervention. Shaking my head because I was starting to sound like Jace, I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

Eden shifted but didn’t wake when I carefully untangled myself enough to type one-handed.

Me: I’m coming to the game this weekend. Make sure there are two seats…good ones.

The typing bubble popped up almost immediately. Of course it did.

Jace: 2 seats?

I stared at the screen for a second, already regretting this.

Me: Yes. Front row. Or something close. And if you stick me in the nosebleeds again while the rest of the family sits in the good seats, I’ll end you.

I could practically see his grin. In a game last season, he’d gotten me tickets so high up I’d needed binoculars while my parents and his friends waved from the best seats in the stadium. The game had been sold out, so I’d had no choice but to sit there. He’d claimed it was a “mix-up.”

It had absolutely not been a mix-up.

Jace: That was funny, and you know it. Also, not helping your cause by telling me you’ll end me.

Jace: Sounds very mafia if you know what I mean.

Me: Jace.

Jace: Mr. Felony Duke Supreme

Jace: And don’t think I haven’t noticed your lack of an answer regarding why you need 2 seats.

Jace: Also, I’m giving myself ten points because “regarding why” sounds incredibly smart, and it’s important to reward yourself.

Shaking my head at my idiot of a brother, who absolutely didn’t deserve ten points—whatever the fuck that was—I glanced down at Eden. She’d rolled onto her stomach now and the sheet had slipped down so I could see the top of her delicious ass. Perfection.

Me: I finally found someone I don’t fall asleep on.

The response took longer this time.

Jace: : . . .

I smirked.

Me: And you are not to scare her away.

He responded almost immediately.

Jace: So you’re saying I shouldn’t tell her about your extracurricular hobbies?

Before I could threaten to kill him again, my phone buzzed, and I saw that Gage was calling. I glanced down at Eden again and then slipped carefully out of bed before stepping into the hallway and closing the door most of the way behind me.

I answered without greeting him. “What’s wrong?”

“Guess where I spent my day,” Gage said.

I leaned back against the wall, already irritated. “If this is a riddle, I’m hanging up.”

“At the Bureau,” he replied evenly. “In a conference room I don’t usually sit in.”

That got my full attention.

“And?” I asked.

A beat of silence stretched between us.

“That picture the blubbering server took of us?” he continued.

A slow tension pulled through me. “What about it?”

“It landed on my boss’s desk.”

I closed my eyes briefly. Of course it did.

“How?” I asked, my tone flat.

“Anonymous email,” Gage said. “No signature. No traceable account. Just the image attached.”

“And?”

“And a note.”

I rubbed at the bridge of my nose. “Are you going to tell me what it said, or do you need dramatic buildup?”

He exhaled quietly. “It said, ‘Dig.’”

“Fuck,” I muttered. “What did they ask you?”

“They asked why I was eating with someone who owns multiple casinos,” he replied dryly. “I mean, what could they ask, Jagger? It’s not like they know exactly how much we own.”

That was true.

“I told them we’re old acquaintances and that we ran into each other by coincidence.” His tone stayed even. “I said I barely know you. That you’re loud, wealthy, and not particularly interesting.”

I almost smiled. “Ouch.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Do you think they bought it?”

“For now,” he said. “But it means you’ll be put on a list now for them to watch.”

“Not ideal,” I murmured.

“The Irish are behind this, I’m assuming.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “O’Dalaigh should be getting Claudia’s body by tonight, though.”

“Who’s Claudia?”

I snorted. “The wannabe assassin at L’Étoile who shot Cruz.”

“I don’t think her name was Claudia,” drawled Gage.

“That’s beside the point,” I scoffed. “The point is that the crate with her body should be getting to his shitty brownstone any minute now. And when it does, we will be sending a message.”

“Don’t fuck with us,” Gage finished for me.

I grinned, probably looking like a maniac standing alone in the hall. “That’s right, Gagey Boy. And I hope for his sake that the asshole listens to it.”

If he didn’t, the next delivery wouldn’t fit in a crate.

CHAPTER 32

EDEN

Ihad never been on a plane before.

Not even one of those tiny ones that look like they’re held together by optimism and duct tape.

And now I was standing at the base of Jagger’s private jet.

The aircraft waited on the tarmac like a predator in repose—black as midnight and edged in a deep gold that matched the Paradise Casino’s signature colors. The stairs were already lowered, an open invitation that felt more like a dare than a welcome.

My stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with physics. “That’s . . . small,” I said.

Jagger glanced at it, then back at me. “It’s not small.”

“It’s definitely smaller than the planes in movies.”

He smirked. “Those are commercial.”

“That does not help.”

His hand slid to the small of my back. “You’ll be fine.” That was easy for him to say. He looked like he was about to board a rideshare.

The engines hummed faintly, low and ominous. I swallowed and followed him up the stairs, resisting the urge to look down.

Inside, it didn’t feel like a plane at all. It felt like a floating living room with its cream leather seats, polished wood, and a small fully stocked bar. It was gorgeous, of course. But it was still made of metal and about to be in the sky. So it had a lot of strikes against it.

I sat down carefully, my fingers gripping the armrests like they might disappear.

Jagger took the seat across from me, watching me with an expression that was way too amused for someone who claimed to like me. “You’re pale,” he observed.

“I am not pale.”

“You’re pale.”

“I’m calculating the probability of survival.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You survived me. You’ll survive this.”

“That is not the same category of threat.”

He laughed under his breath like I’d told a joke and moved, abandoning his seat to sit beside me instead. His thigh pressed against mine, and he draped his arm casually across the back of my chair.

“Put on your seat belt,” I hissed, and he snorted as he made a dramatic show of listening to me. The door sealed shut with a solid, final sound, and my heart rate doubled.

The plane began to move, slow at first, then faster as we taxied. I tried to breathe normally and not as though I was imagining us hurtling into the sky like a very expensive projectile . . . but I didn’t think I was doing a great job.

Jagger’s hand slid into mine. “Look at me,” he said quietly.

I did.

“Planes are safer than cars,” he continued. “Statistically. And this one is maintained obsessively. My pilot’s flown me through worse than a little takeoff.”

“That’s not comforting.”

He smiled faintly. “You trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust that I wouldn’t put you in a situation I wasn’t certain about.”

The engines roared louder. My stomach dropped as the plane surged forward. “Oh my gosh,” I breathed. The force pressed me back into the seat and then—we were up, and the ground was falling away. My fingers crushed his as we tilted slightly, climbing, the city shrinking beneath us into something unreal and distant.

I realized I’d been holding my breath when he squeezed my hand. “Eden,” Jagger murmured. I exhaled shakily.

The climb smoothed out after a few minutes, and the pressure around my spine eased as the roar of the plane softened into a steady hum.

All right . . . so we were fine and still alive. For the time being.

I looked out the window cautiously. Clouds drifted below us like something out of a painting. The sun caught the wing at an angle that made it gleam. “That’s . . .” I swallowed. “That’s actually kind of beautiful.”

Jagger watched me instead of the view. “You’re doing great,” he said.

“I feel like I just ran a marathon without moving.”

He brushed his thumb over my knuckles. “We call that adrenaline,” he laughed.

“I hate adrenaline.”

“You don’t,” he corrected. “You just prefer to choose when you get it.”

I rolled my eyes, and he leaned in, pressing a slow kiss across my lips before pulling back.

The plane hummed steadily around us. My heart had finally stopped trying to escape my rib cage. And then, because apparently surviving takeoff unlocked new anxieties, another thought crept in.

I shifted in my seat and tried to sound casual. “Your brother . . .”

Jagger’s brows lifted slightly. “What about him?”

“He’s going to like me, right?”

Jagger studied me for a second like I’d just said something absurd. “Of course he’s going to like you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because you’re you,” he said simply.

I frowned. “That is not a real answer.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh and leaned back, still holding my hand. “I’m more worried about you not liking him.”

That caught me off guard. “What?”

“He’s slightly insane,” Jagger said. “The best and the worst guy ever.”

I stared at him. “That is not reassuring.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You know what you need?” he asked.

I narrowed my eyes. “To go back to Vegas?”

“A tour.” He grinned.

Before I could protest, he unbuckled my seat belt with one smooth flick of his wrist, then stood and tugged me up with him. His fingers laced through mine, and he led me toward the back of the plane.

The cabin narrowed as we moved past the bar and the cluster of seats. A sleek black door waited at the end, and Jagger turned the gold handle and pulled me inside.

My breath caught when I saw we were in a bedroom. A real freaking bedroom thirty thousand feet in the air.

The space carried the same black-and-gold aesthetic as the rest of the plane, but this time it centered around a king-sized bed. A row of oval windows lined one side of the cabin, framing nothing but open sky—an endless sweep of blue with thin ribbons of cloud drifting past. I got a little queasy staring outside at the dizzying drop below.

Jagger kicked the door shut behind us, and I jumped when he turned the lock. He turned to me, his eyes dark and hungry. “Still freaking out about flying?”

I swallowed. My pulse was a drumbeat between my thighs. “A little.”

He stepped closer, crowding me until the back of my legs hit the bed. “Let me fix that.”

His mouth slammed against mine. I parted my lips for him right away, tasting the faint burn of whiskey he’d had when we’d first gotten on the plane. His palms roamed without mercy, slipping beneath my top and cupping my breasts before his thumbs brushed over my sensitive peaks.

I whimpered against his tongue, and he drank in my cries before pulling back just long enough to rip my shirt off and then unhook my bra in one swift motion. Sudden coolness washed across my bare skin, and my nipples drew even tighter under his scrutiny.

“Fucking hell. Look at you,” he growled.

Jagger sank to one knee in front of me and pulled on the waistband of my leggings and underwear, dragging both down together in a single impatient yank. I stepped free on trembling limbs.

He rose slowly, never once breaking eye contact with me as he pulled off his shirt. The air between us thickened as his fingers moved to his belt and he tugged the leather loose before shoving his pants low enough to release himself. His cock jutted free, and I licked my lips at the fact that the swollen tip was already weeping precum.

Jagger fisted himself and closed the last step between us. “Open your mouth, baby,” he purred.

I parted my lips without hesitation, even though this was the first time we were doing this.

This wasn’t just my first time giving Jagger head . . . it was also the first time I’d ever really wanted to do it at all. With Ryan, it had always been a duty that I swallowed down like bad medicine. I’d hated the taste, the way my jaw ached, and the way it made me feel small and used. I’d never once felt that spark of heat low in my belly; I’d never once craved the stretch, the fullness, the weight pressing against my tongue.

But with Jagger?

The second he guided himself past my lips, something snapped awake inside me. My mouth watered instantly. I wanted this. I wanted him to fill me, I wanted to taste the salt and heat that was only his. To see his control fray because of what I was doing to him.

Jagger fed me his dick slowly, his eyes on mine as my lips stretched wide around him. I moaned at the salty taste of him, the sound vibrating around the head as he pushed in, inch by inch. My eyes were watering from the effort, but I didn’t pull away. I leaned forward instead, eager and greedy for more.

His free hand twisted gently into my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted while he rocked forward in shallow, measured pulses.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take it all for me. Fuck, look at you.”

Evidently my pussy liked to be praised because every time he did it, I got extremely wet. I hollowed my cheeks and curled my tongue along his thick underside, exploring every ridge and vein. Saliva was dripping down my chin, but I didn’t care. I wanted the mess and for him to see how eager I was to do this.

This wasn’t an obligation on my part . . . it was a need.

I moaned around him again, and the vibration pulled a rough sound from his throat. His hips stuttered once, then steadied. He fucked my mouth with careful restraint, deep enough to make my head spin, but never enough to hurt. Every slide forward sent another thrill racing through me.

When he finally pulled back, I chased him with my mouth, sucking harder, my tongue swirling greedy circles around the head like I could keep him there forever.

“Not yet,” Jagger growled as he grabbed my chin and tilted my face up, forcing me to release him with a slick pop. His cock bobbed free, glossy with my spit, and a thin silver thread stretched between my swollen lips and the flushed tip before it snapped.

I whimpered at the loss, and Jagger dragged his thumb roughly across my bottom lip, smearing the mess across my lips before slipping his finger into my mouth. I didn’t hesitate and licked it immediately, savoring the taste. My eyes stayed on his the whole time, wide and wanting, showing him exactly how much I loved this.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Now turn around. Get on the bed and on your knees. Ass up for me.”

I scrambled to obey, my heart slamming against my ribs as my knees sank into the plush dark sheets. My back arched instinctively as I pushed my hips back toward him. The oval windows waited right in front of my face, but I couldn’t find it in myself to be terrified at the moment . . . not with what was about to happen.

Jagger nudged the inside of my ankle, forcing my thighs wider until I was spread open and exposed. He smoothed his rough palms over my hips before he gripped me hard and dragged the thick head of his cock teasingly through my folds. I whimpered as he brushed my clit with every pass.

“Beg for it, Eden,” he rasped. “Tell me how much you want my cock.”

I bit my lip, my thighs trembling. “Please⁠—”

“That’s not good enough,” he said, and even though I couldn’t see him at the moment, I knew he was smirking. “Use your words, baby. Tell me exactly what you want. Tell me how empty that pretty pussy feels without me stretching it open.”

Heat flooded my face, my chest, everywhere. My core clenched on nothing, aching so fiercely it hurt. I pressed my forehead to the cool sheets for a second, then lifted my chin, my voice coming out shaky but desperate.

“Please, Jagger,” I breathed. “I need you inside me. I need your cock so bad it hurts. I’m dripping for you—look how wet I am, how much I want you. Please fuck me. Stretch me. Fill me up. Please . . . just please give it to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll take it however you want. Just don’t make me wait anymore.”

“That’s my girl,” he said through gritted teeth as he drove forward and buried himself to the hilt, stretching me wide and filling me so completely my breath punched out in a broken cry. The burn was exquisite, and my walls pulsed around him greedily, trying to pull him deeper even as he already bottomed out.

Jagger’s hands locked on my hips as he withdrew almost to the tip, then slammed back in. The wet slap of our bodies filled the cabin, mixing with my gasping moans and his curses. Each punishing drive jolted me forward. The angle was devastating—he hit that spot inside me over and over until my vision sparked white at the edges.

“Fuck, Eden,” he groaned. “This cunt was fucking made for me. Listen to how you’re sucking me in every time I pull out.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, catching the flex of his abs, the clench of his jaw, and the way his eyes were locked on where we joined—like he couldn’t look away from the sight of his cock disappearing inside me again and again.

Jagger leaned over me so that his chest was pressed to my back. He slid his hand up to collar my throat while the other one banded across my stomach and found my clit. He rubbed fast, merciless circles that matched the punishing rhythm of his hips.

“Eyes on the sky, Eden,” he murmured into my ear as he gently squeezed my throat. I stared into the endless azure out the window as he rutted inside me again and again.

“Jagger—please⁠—”

“Say it,” he demanded, his thrusts turning savage. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” I gasped. “Only you. Always you. Please don’t stop—don’t ever stop.”

“Fuck yes.”

He pressed harder on my clit, and the tension snapped. I came with a scream that echoed off the walls. He fucked me through every shuddering aftershock, drawing it out until I was sobbing his name and I was nothing but sensation and surrender.

Jagger didn’t stop until his hips stuttered, and with one final, punishing thrust, he buried himself deep and flooded me with his cum until I felt it spill, hot and slick around him.

We stayed locked together, both of us panting as I stared dazedly out the window. He finally pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to my nape. “Still scared of flying?” he murmured, sounding completely smug because he knew he’d just fucked me silly.

“Apparently your dick is the cure for that,” I said with a tired laugh.

He chuckled, then eased out of me, turning me around until we faced each other. “Welcome to the Mile High Club, baby,” he teased. “Paradise Edition.”

I pressed my cheek to his chest, still feeling him everywhere.

And thirty thousand feet above the world, I’d never felt more alive.

Jagger

I would never forget the look in Eden’s eyes when we stepped out of the bedroom. Not because of what we’d just done—though that alone was worth commemorating—but because Blanche was standing there in her orthopedic shoes with a tray of brownies like this was a church social and we hadn’t just defiled a multimillion-dollar aircraft ten feet away.

Eden’s hair was slightly wrecked, and her cheeks were flushed in a way that made my dick hard all over again. She had a dazed, floating expression that made it very clear she’d just been well fucked.

“Oh good,” Blanche said brightly. “You’re alive. I was about to assume there was turbulence back there I wasn’t feeling.”

Eden made a sound that I’m fairly certain wasn’t a real word, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Blanche didn’t even raise an eyebrow. She simply held out the tray like she’d been doing this since the invention of aviation.

I loved her.

The septuagenarian staffing decision had not been random. It had been born of experience. Traumatic, couch-related experience.

The idea had first taken root after flying on Lincoln Daniels’s plane. At the time, I’d thought it was strange that he’d hired an entire roster of elegant grandmothers to handle in-flight service. I’d assumed it was some wholesome branding quirk. Maybe he liked the vibe. Maybe he had unresolved childhood issues.

Then I’d learned the real reason.

No one flirts with your wife when the flight attendant looks like she might knit you a sweater and judge your life choices at the same time.

I’d privately rolled my eyes . . . until the day I walked out of my own plane’s bathroom and found one of my flight attendants naked on the couch, legs spread, and smiling as if she’d just won a raffle.

She had not won anything. She had been unemployed before we landed, in fact.

After that little episode, Lincoln’s grandmother brigade started looking like a stroke of genius.

Blanche had come highly recommended by a retired senator who described her as “discreet and terrifying in equal measure.” She’d interviewed me like she was vetting a charity case, asking about my travel frequency, my expectations, and my boundaries.

I hired her on the spot.

Blanche would never strip on my furniture.

Blanche would never flirt with me.

More importantly now, Blanche would never flirt with Eden.

That was the real brilliance of Lincoln Daniels’s plan.

Eden was still standing there, staring at the brownies as though they were evidence in a trial.

Blanche tilted her head kindly. “Brownie, dear?”

Eden glanced at me, mortified, but I was having the time of my life.

“You should take one,” I said, perfectly straight-faced.

Blanche cleared her throat gently. “Hydration is also advisable.”

Eden managed, “Thank you,” in a tone that suggested she’d prefer to be dropped midair.

Blanche smiled with the unshakeable confidence of a woman who had seen decades of human behavior and found most of it predictable. “You’re very welcome.”

I took a brownie from the tray and nodded at Blanche. “You’re a national treasure.”

“I know,” Blanche replied without hesitation.

Eden choked on her first bite, and I slid an arm around her waist, pulling her into my side as she tried to recover from embarrassment, desire, and the presence of a grandmotherly chaperone all at once.

Lincoln had been right.

Hire the grandmothers. Trust the grandmothers.

And never again walk out of a bathroom to find someone naked on your couch.

Blanche adjusted the tray and turned back toward the galley like nothing had happened.

Eden buried her face briefly against my shoulder. I looked down at her, at the flush still staining her cheeks, at the way her eyes refused to meet Blanche’s.

Worth it.

CHAPTER 33

EDEN

Ihad never been to a football game before.

Apparently, this was becoming a pattern in my life.

In the handful of weeks since Jagger had crashed into my world, I’d done more new, thrilling, terrifying, exhilarating things than I had in all the years before him combined.

It was overwhelming. It was perfect. It was so far outside the careful life I’d lived before him that sometimes I still caught myself waiting for the moment it would all disappear.

The stadium rose around us like its own city, loud and alive in a way that made my chest vibrate. Orange flooded everything—shirts, flags, painted faces. The crowd’s voices swelled and rolled, colliding and stacking on top of one another until the noise fused into a single, breathing thing.

I clutched the railing for a second when we stepped into the suite.

“Too much?” Jagger murmured near my ear.

I shook my head, even though it absolutely was.

The field stretched out below us in perfect green stripes. The teams were lined up now as the first plays of the game unfolded under the sun. The massive screen shifted from pregame hype to live action, replaying the opening snap while music thudded between whistles. Every tackle, every completed pass, and every near miss pulled a reaction from the crowd. Coming to a football game was evidently a good way to burst your eardrums.

“I feel like I’ve walked into a movie,” I admitted.

Jagger smiled faintly, his hand settling at my waist like it belonged there. “Tennessee fans are . . . intense.”

As if summoned by what he’d said, a blonde a few feet away sprang to her feet. “Parker Davis, you have legs for a reason. Use them!” she screamed over the railing.

The black-haired woman beside her didn’t react at all. She stayed leaned against the railing with her arms folded, watching the field with calm focus. I blinked as the blonde dropped back into her seat. “He hesitates when he overthinks,” she muttered, looking up at me like I was supposed to be agreeing with her. “He needs aggression.”

I stared at her. “Are you . . . on staff?”

She looked at me, clearly insulted. “Emotionally? Yes.”

Jagger laughed under his breath. “Natalie, I don’t know what Tennessee would do without you,” he said mockingly.

She nodded as if he was being serious. “I’m a real asset to this organization, and I should get more credit for it, Thatcher,” she replied, then launched out of her seat again like a rocket. This time she cupped her hands around her mouth, leaning so far over the railing I thought she might fall over.

“Adler! You beautiful bastard, quit dancing with the linebacker and hit the damn hole!” she yelled with pure, unfiltered frustration. “You’re faster than him—make him eat turf!”

“Well, well,” another gorgeous blonde said, distracting me from Natalie’s . . . passion, as she walked into the suite. “You made it.”

Jagger turned, his hand tightening briefly at my waist before sliding higher along my back. “Good to see you, Riley-kins.”

My heart stuttered, realizing this was the Riley. As in Jace’s wife.

Riley scoffed at the nickname, and then her gaze flicked to me, warm and assessing in the way of someone who’d already decided to like you.

Jagger didn’t hesitate. “This is my girlfriend,” he said smoothly, drawing me closer, “Eden.”

Girlfriend.

The word echoed in my head, bigger than it had any right to be. There had been a bigger word once—wife. A ring slipped onto my finger in a small ceremony that felt less like a decision and more like momentum. Ryan had been familiar. Safe in the way small worlds can be safe.

Getting married hadn’t felt romantic so much as inevitable. The next step. The next box to check when you didn’t know there were other boxes.

And somewhere along the way, that word had grown heavy. What once had felt like security had slowly tightened into something that pressed down instead of lifted up.

This—standing here with Jagger’s hand steady at my back while he said girlfriend felt nothing like that. What was wrong with me that it somehow felt a million times more thrilling than being Ryan’s wife ever had?

I swallowed down the guilt suddenly churning in my chest and worked on keeping my face calm so that no one could see the storm that had just moved through me.

Riley’s smile widened. “Eden,” she repeated, like she was tasting the name and liking how it sounded. “Finally.”

Before I could figure out what to say—Hi, nice to meet you, please don’t hate me—she closed the distance in two steps and pulled me into a hug.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I murmured, really meaning it.

She pulled away but kept one hand on my arm, squeezing lightly. “Jace has been asking about you every five minutes. He’s down on the field pretending to focus, but trust me—he’s counting the seconds until the game’s over so he can meet you himself.”

I nodded, my nerves flaring all over again. Ryan and I hadn’t grown up with siblings, so the idea of meeting someone’s brother already felt like a milestone. Meeting Jagger’s brother felt like stepping onto a stage when I wasn’t sure about the lines.

“Jace Thatcher, what the hell was that route?!” Natalie screamed. “You saw him coming—get your head around and break that tackle! Don’t let some safety punk you like that! Get up and show him who’s got the speed!”

I glanced down to where number 77, Jace, was on the ground. He pushed himself up, shaking his head like he was clearing stars. Jace’s helmet tilted, and I swear he looked up at our suite, even though there was no way he could hear her.

Natalie dropped back into her seat, breathing hard. “Idiot,” she muttered, but there was affection under the bite. “Always thinks he can outrun the hit. One day he’s gonna learn the hard way.”

“You met Natalie.” Riley smirked, apparently unbothered that Natalie had turned her fury to Jace. “And that’s Casey, Parker Davis’s wife—he’s the quarterback.”

Casey grinned at me. “Welcome to the madness.”

A whistle shrieked across the field, and the crowd shifted in unison, anticipation tightening the air. The ball snapped, and everything moved at once. Jace exploded off the line, cutting across the field in a smooth, aggressive arc. The quarterback launched the ball high, and for a suspended second it seemed to hang against the sky before dropping straight into Jace’s waiting hands.

He caught it, and the stadium detonated. Everyone in the suite shot to their feet as if pulled by the same invisible string. Natalie screamed first, her voice slicing through the roar, while Casey clapped hard, her composure breaking just enough to show how much it meant. Riley laughed and grabbed my arm as she joined in.

Jagger clapped once and put his fist in the air, his grin unmistakable as he watched his brother sprint into the end zone. I found myself clapping, too, laughing without thinking . . . pulled into the energy whether I fully understood what was happening or not.

Natalie leaned over the railing again, triumphant. “That’s how you finish a fucking route!” she shouted.

As if the universe had decided that wasn’t chaotic enough, her phone began buzzing in her hand. She glanced at the screen and, without missing a beat, swiped to answer. “You’re late,” she said, flipping it to FaceTime.

I only half paid attention at first. And then I looked and did a double take so sharp it nearly gave me whiplash.

The face filling her screen was unmistakable—dark hair, devastating jawline, cinematic bone structure that had probably funded at least three production studios. I’d seen that face on billboards. On red carpet highlight reels. On magazine covers in grocery store checkout lines.

Easton Maddox.

The Easton Maddox.

“Did we score?” Easton demanded through the speaker, his voice distorted slightly by the stadium noise.

“Yes,” Natalie said happily. “Because I yelled at them.”

“Breathe,” Riley murmured, patting my shoulder as she clearly clocked the fact that I was seconds away from short-circuiting.

“Is that—” I gasped.

“Yes, it is,” Riley said, entirely too amused.

“But—”

“That’s Natalie’s husband,” she explained calmly, like she wasn’t confirming that a literal A-list movie star was casually FaceTiming from someone’s pocket.

Natalie turned the phone toward me. “Say hi to Jagger’s girlfriend, babe.”

Easton shifted closer to the camera, and for a second it felt like he was looking straight at me through the screen. He smiled in that charming, practiced way that made women all over the world faint.

“Hi,” he said warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

My brain attempted to reboot again.

“Hi,” I managed, praying I didn’t sound like a malfunctioning robot.

Jagger reached over without a word, his hand closing around Natalie’s wrist. He gently but firmly turned the phone back toward her, cutting off Easton’s view of me. “I think we’ve had enough of that,” he said dryly.

All the women dissolved into laughter.

Jagger used the moment to slide behind me, his arms banding around my waist as he pulled me back against his chest. His mouth found the side of my neck, and he bit down gently, his teeth grazing skin just hard enough to send a shiver racing down my spine. “Mine,” he murmured.

I melted into him without thinking.

Across the small cluster of seats, Casey caught my eye and winked. One perfectly arched brow lifted playfully as she mouthed Hot, then doubled down with an exaggerated second wink, her grin unapologetically mischievous.

Heat flooded my face again, and I returned her wink before the crowd’s screams brought my attention back to the field.

A giant tiger was sprinting across the field, waving a flag and hyping up the crowd with exaggerated enthusiasm. The orange-and-white mascot leapt, spun, and pounded on its chest while the audience roared approval.

“Go FiFi!” Natalie screamed. Riley and Casey started cheering as well.

“That’s Ophelia. She’s married to Matty Adler, Tennessee’s tight end and Jace’s other best friend,” Jagger explained.

“And she’s the team mascot?” I asked, watching as she did an impressive backflip.

“It’s a very long and fun story,” Riley said, waggling her eyebrows at us.

That sounded interesting.

Jagger’s fingers brushed against mine. “What are you thinking right now?” he murmured.

I looked out over the stadium again.

“I can’t believe how little I’ve done in my life,” I admitted.

He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Before you . . . I’d never been to a sports game of any type. I’d never flown before. I’d never even eaten at a freaking buffet, expensive or a Golden Corral.” I gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I haven’t done anything.”

The noise of the stadium continued around us, but it felt distant suddenly.

Jagger turned me toward him fully, and he lifted my face slightly. “We’ll fix that.”

I swallowed. “Fix it?”

“I’ll show you everything,” he said.

The certainty in his voice made my chest tighten.

“Everything?” I asked.

“Everything,” he repeated. “Games. Cities. Concerts. Food. Anything you think you’ve missed.”

The crowd roared as Parker scored, but I couldn’t look away from Jagger and the way he was watching me like I was the event worth attending.

“That’s an awfully big promise,” I told him.

He smirked. “I think we both know by now that I don’t do small.”

***

Jagger

“Hey, Jagger-meister, I’ve got one,” Jace called across the table, obviously completely forgetting the part where I’d told him not to embarrass me in front of Eden.

“No. Absolutely not,” said Matty immediately.

“What does he have?” Eden asked, and the whole table groaned because there was no stopping him now.

“Just get it over with,” I told Jace, rolling my eyes.

“That was very princely of you,” he responded, and now I was just thankful he hadn’t added crime prince to that sentence, since apparently he was on a roll.

“Why did the witch go commando?” Jace asked. No one said anything, and he scoffed, clearly offended. “To get a better grip on her broom, of course.”

The table was crickets.

Riley patted Jace’s arm like he was a toddler who had just proudly shown her a stick-figure drawing. “That was very funny,” she soothed.

“It was layered,” Jace insisted. “There was wordplay.”

“Yes, you’re completely right,” she said, shooting Eden a wink.

“There was actually only trauma,” Matty corrected her.

Eden made a strangled sound next to me, halfway between a laugh and secondhand embarrassment. I felt her shoulders shaking.

Jace pointed at her triumphantly. “See? She gets it.”

“She’s being polite,” Casey said sweetly.

Natalie leaned back in her chair. “I’m filing that under Reasons Riley deserves sainthood.”

Riley beamed like this was a compliment.

Jace looked wounded. “You people have no appreciation for high art.”

“You said broom,” Matty deadpanned.

“It was metaphorical! I was referring to—” Before he could continue that pleasant little thought, Parker, Casey’s husband, smacked a hand across Jace’s mouth, cutting him off.

“If you lick me again, there will be repercussions,” Parker said, staring Jace down for a second daringly, before removing his hand.

Natalie leaned across the table toward Eden. “For the record, this is very normal. He gets worse after dessert.”

“I do not,” Jace growled.

“You absolutely do,” Matty and Ophelia said in unison.

Eden was openly laughing now, her head tipped slightly toward me, her eyes bright in a way that did something violent to my chest.

Jace watched her for a second, then looked at me slowly.

“Oh,” he said.

“No,” I warned.

“Ohhh,” he repeated, dragging it out.

Riley slapped a hand over his mouth before he could continue. “We are not doing this.”

Casey lifted her glass. “To Eden. May she survive us.”

“To Eden,” Natalie echoed.

Everyone raised their glasses.

I slid my hand over hers under the table, lacing our fingers together.

Jace pulled Riley’s hand away from his mouth just long enough to grin at her. “Welcome to the family.”

And for once, I didn’t even argue with him.

CHAPTER 34

JAGGER

Iwoke up with a gasp, my body jerking upright before my mind had even caught up.

The hotel sheets were twisted around my legs like I’d been fighting something off, and for a split second, I had no idea where I was—just that something felt wrong.

Dragging a hand through my sweaty hair, I tried to slow my breathing. My pulse was thudding hard in my ears, loud enough to drown out the silence around me.

What a fucking dream.

I’d been back in the hospital with Carlie. It looked exactly the way it had the night she’d been hurt—the same sterile lighting, the same suffocating quiet, the same sense that something irreversible had already happened. A wheelchair sat at the foot of the bed, though, turned slightly away from me.

I’d called her name, but when she pivoted toward me, it wasn’t Carlie in the chair. It had been Eden. It was Eden’s eyes locked on mine, searching and desperate, like she was waiting for me to fix it, to undo whatever had been done.

And I couldn’t.

That was the part still clawing at me right now. The helplessness. The rage. The bone-deep certainty that I had failed someone I was supposed to protect.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I braced my forearms on my thighs, breathing hard as I tried to force the image away.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening.

I turned to where Eden was still asleep. She was on her stomach, one arm tucked under her pillow. Her breathing was slow and even and completely undisturbed. I reached out without thinking and rested my palm lightly against her back, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath my hand. She shifted faintly at the touch, murmuring something soft, then settled again.

Fuck.

Evidently, there was nothing quite like falling in love for the first time in your life to dredge up every unresolved trauma you’d ever carefully buried. Apparently, my subconscious had decided this was the perfect moment for a highlight reel. Fantastic.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand, and I groaned. It was three fucking o’clock in the morning. I reached for it before it could light up the room again and saw that it was Cruz.

Of course.

I cast one look back at Eden. She’d shifted but hadn’t woken up, and I slid out of bed and crossed the room, answering only once I’d stepped into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind me.

“What happened?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“O’Dalaigh got our message,” Cruz snapped.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and frowned. I looked like death warmed over. I needed to take a shower before Eden woke up and saw me like this. The last thing I needed was having to explain that I’d had a dream about my ex-girlfriend wearing Eden’s face. The girlfriend who, in a roundabout way, was one of the reasons I’d ended up a psychopathic mobster in the first place. One who had eventually killed Eden’s husband.

I really couldn’t explain any of that.

“And?” I prompted.

“And he sent one back.”

I leaned a hip against the counter. “That was quick.”

“One of the security guards just found a body,” Cruz said evenly. “It happened to be one of our judges.”

Shit. It had taken a lot of work to get in with the local judiciary. Even losing one made everything infinitely harder.

“Where was the body?”

“In the middle of the casino at Paradise,” Cruz snapped, and I almost grinned, imagining how frustrated he must look right now having to handle this without me for once.

“I mean, that is bold,” I murmured. Just like us delivering Claudia’s corpse, leaving a dead body was him saying he could reach into our house, rearrange the furniture, and leave without asking permission.

“How long ago did he find it?” I asked, making a note that the guards needed raises.

“About an hour ago. Security locked it down immediately before the media could sniff it out.”

It was only a matter of time for that. Judges couldn’t exactly drop dead on casino floors without some questions. And O’Dalaigh would no doubt be putting pressure on all the right people to ask them.

“He left us another little present,” Cruz said.

Of course he did. The man loved a signature.

“What was it?”

“A coin with an Irish crest stamped on it.”

I stared at my reflection again, watching the slow shift in my own expression. Now I wasn’t even impressed, because that wasn’t subtle at all. O’Dalaigh wanted escalation. He wanted spectacle. He wanted to see if we’d blink.

The dream flickered through my mind again—Eden in that chair, looking at me like I was supposed to fix it.

I exhaled slowly and straightened, my gaze still locked on my reflection. “We’ll be out first thing in the morning,” I told Cruz.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, one that meant Cruz was weighing something. “Did it go well?” he finally asked, the edge in his voice softening just slightly. “With her.”

“Yes,” I said, but it came out distracted. “It went well.”

“Just well?” Cruz pressed, because he’d known me long enough to hear the difference.

I dragged a hand down my jaw, annoyed at myself for letting anything show. “I’ll talk to you about it later,” I told him, “when we don’t have a dead judge to deal with.”

“Fair,” Cruz muttered.

“See you tomorrow,” I said before hanging up.

The phone hit the counter with a dull clack. Something was clawing at the inside of my ribs, a dark, irrational certainty that if I walked out of this bathroom right now, she’d be gone. That somehow she’d slipped away while I was on that call.

I threw open the door, my chest heaving as I lunged back into the room. It kind of felt like I was having a heart attack as I stared down at her sleeping form.

Stalking over to my bag, I pulled out a pair of handcuffs I always packed just in case. My hands were shaking as I snapped one bracelet around my left wrist before walking over to her and carefully sliding the other cuff around her right wrist.

The chain was short—barely six inches. She couldn’t go anywhere . . . not that she seemed to be in a hurry at the moment. I perhaps shouldn’t have worried about drugging her all those weeks. Eden was a pretty deep sleeper. She still hadn’t stirred.

I wasn’t done yet, though. I wasn’t going to feel better until we were connected in every way. I slid a finger inside her black lace panties and tore them off. She finally jerked awake, and her eyes flew open.

“Jagger—”

I was already on her.

One knee shoved between her thighs, spreading her while my free hand pinned her hip to the mattress. The chain rattled as I yanked her bound wrist up over her head, securing it beside mine. She arched instinctively, confusion flashing into heat, then fear, then something darker—recognition.

I didn’t wait for words.

I thrust into her hard. She cried out, but her thighs clamped instinctively around my hips, her heels digging into the backs of my legs, pulling me deeper even as her breath hitched in panic. Her inner walls gripped me in frantic, pulsing waves, not fluttering but squeezing down in tight, erratic spasms, like her body was trying to anchor itself to me through sheer force.

“Jagger—wait⁠—”

“No.” My voice came out shredded. I pulled back and slammed home again, harder, burying myself to the root until there was no space left between us. The chain jerked taut between us and bit into my skin. “You’re not leaving.”

I pinned her down harder with my weight, my forearm braced beside her head and the short chain forcing her wrist to stay locked near mine. Every movement tugged the cuff, a constant reminder—tug, clink, tug, clink—like a heartbeat made of steel.

Her eyes widened farther. “I’m not⁠—”

“You’re never leaving me.” Each word punched out with a desperate thrust. “Never. You hear me, Eden?” I leaned down and pressed my forehead against hers, my breath ragged against her mouth. “I’ll chain you to me. I’ll burn the fucking world down. But you don’t get to walk away. Not from this. Not from me.”

She whimpered, a half sob, half moan, and her hips rose to meet mine despite the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Her free hand clawed at my shoulder, her nails digging deep as she clung to me. “I’m not—I’m not leaving⁠—”

“Say it.” I fucked her faster, vaguely aware of how loud the bed frame was banging against the wall. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped. “Yours. Only yours. Jagger—please⁠—”

The plea ripped through me, and I drove deeper, grinding my hips so the thick ridge of my cock dragged relentlessly over that swollen bundle of nerves inside her with every forceful plunge. She jerked like I’d electrocuted her, a high, keening sound tearing free from her chest as she shattered around me. Her cries were muffled against my neck as she came, trembling, her chained wrist jerking against mine.

I followed half a second later, heat exploding down my spine as I spilled into her.

We stayed locked together, the chain clinking softly every time one of us shifted. Her eyes were glassy and wide, still locked on mine like she was seeing straight through to the monster underneath.

I pressed my mouth to her temple . . . gentler now. “You’re never leaving,” I whispered again, quieter this time. “Never.”

She swallowed hard, then nodded shakily. “I know,” she breathed. “I don’t want to.”

The fear didn’t vanish. But right then, with her bound to me, full of me, trembling in my arms—it was quiet enough to breathe.

For now.

CHAPTER 35

EDEN

There were cop cars waiting for us on the tarmac when we landed.

I saw them through the window as the jet rolled to a slow stop—two patrol cruisers angled across the asphalt, lights off but engines running, the red-and-blue bars on their roofs catching the edge of the floodlights. My stomach twisted. Police didn’t wait for private planes unless something was very wrong.

“Jagger?” My voice sounded thin even to me.

He was already standing, his body rigid, and his eyes fixed on the scene outside. “Stay right next to me,” he said as he guided me toward the door.

“What’s happening?” I whispered even though no one could hear us.

“I have no idea,” he answered as the stairs were lowered with a mechanical whine and the night air rushed in along with the smell of jet fuel.

We started down the steps. Halfway to the tarmac, one of the officers stepped forward, and my eyes widened when I saw Gage was right behind him, his face carefully blank and his hands in his pockets like this was just another late-night pickup.

The officer spoke first. “Mr. Thatcher, we need to speak with you regarding the death of Judge Harlan Larkin.”

I blinked at that. I wasn’t exactly up to date on the legal system, but I had heard that name in the news before. My mind reeled, trying to catch up. Why would the police think that Jagger had any answers about that?

“I’m happy to cooperate,” Jagger said evenly, his tone almost bored. “What exactly do you need from me?”

The officer’s gaze flicked to me in assessment, then back to Jagger. “We’ll discuss that at the station. In private.”

Jagger’s grip on my elbow tightened for half a second. Then he leaned in, pretending like he was kissing me goodbye. “Don’t let on that you know Gage,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind.

Confusion crashed through me. “What⁠—”

“Just do it, Eden.” The words were urgent, almost pleading. “Just do it.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes forward and away from Gage’s face. Jagger turned me slightly toward where a familiar SUV was waiting.

“Eden,” he said, louder this time so the officers could hear him. “Go with Zachary. He’s waiting in the SUV. I’ll be home soon.”

“Jagger—”

“It’s just some questions.” His eyes locked on mine. “Trust me.”

I wanted to argue and go with him, but I finally nodded and walked toward where Zachary was already out of the SUV and waiting for me.

“Mr. Thatcher, if you’ll come with us,” I heard the officer say.

I glanced back once over my shoulder, hating the sight of him walking away, and then I slid into the SUV.

***

Jagger

“What the fuck is this, Branson?” I snarled as I got into the police cruiser.

Branson, one of the officers we paid a lot of money to so we could avoid this exact situation, gave me a regretful look. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thatcher. This wasn’t one we could just ignore without getting attention. A letter was sent to the FBI and our office stating that you were involved in Larkin’s death.”

I scoffed. “Did anyone bother checking to see if I was in town this weekend? Spoiler alert—I’ve got a jumbotron shot in front of a hundred thousand people that said I wasn’t.” Shaking my head in disgust, I checked the text that had just come in.

Gage: Congratulations. You’ve now become the face of the Las Vegas mafia.

Perfect. Where was Cruz when I actually needed him?

A second text came in, this time in the group chat.

Lawson: The main cameras at Paradise went conveniently offline when the judge was dumped: . . .but they obviously didn’t know about the other ones.

Me: I’m in the back of a cop car. Try not to leave me in suspense. Who the fuck are we killing?

The three dots appeared immediately. Lawson better be typing fast.

A video file dropped into the chat—short and grainy and time-stamped from the night of the judge’s death. There was no audio, just silent black-and-white security footage from one of the hidden auxiliary feeds we’d installed last year during Paradise’s “maintenance” phase.

These weren’t the flashy casino cams everyone knew about—the ones covering the main floor, the pits, and the high-limit rooms. These were the ghost cameras, with discreet lenses tucked into ceiling panels, HVAC vents, decorative molding, and service corridors. A setup only the five of us knew existed, placed specifically for moments like this.

The footage opened on a wide angle of the casino floor near the employee corridor behind the craps tables. Carl, our Carl—the quiet, dependable Paradise manager who’d been with Cruz’s family since before we’d taken over—walked into frame pushing a large laundry cart. There would usually be nothing off about that . . . if Carl was actually in housekeeping.

Two men walked on either side of him, both in maintenance coveralls, their faces partially hidden by the camera angle and the low pull of their caps. They moved with purpose across the floor. No one in the footage paid them any notice as they moved through the room. It was a packed Saturday night, and most eyes were locked on cards and spinning reels—not the people pushing service carts past them.

They rolled the cart past a row of slot machines, then paused near the edge of the high-limit lounge that was right at the mouth of a narrow service hallway that led to the loading dock. The cart stopped. One of the men glanced around, and then Carl reached down, lifted the heavy canvas flap on the cart’s side, and pulled out something wrapped in a large hotel sheet.

As the bundle hit the floor, the sheet slipped open, and the judge’s dead face was visible for a few seconds.

Carl didn’t hesitate. He dropped to one knee, gathered the sheet with practiced efficiency, and tugged it back over the judge’s face, tucking the edges under the shoulders and hips until nothing showed but white fabric. I watched as he said something to the two men before they turned and walked away.

Carl waited exactly seven seconds—long enough to make sure no one had noticed—then wheeled the empty cart away toward the employee exit. He disappeared down the corridor as if he’d just finished his shift.

The video cut to black, and my vision narrowed to a pinprick.

Carl.

Meek, stalwart Carl, who’d never once said no to anything we’d asked from him. The one employee in our entire organization besides Zachary who I’d have sworn on my life would never flip.

I was furious.

Branson glanced at me in the rearview, frowning. “Is everything okay back there, Mr. Thatcher?” he asked. “Do you need more air?”

I met his gaze in the reflection—long enough that he swallowed visibly.

“You’d never betray us, right, Branson?” I asked, fully aware of how scary and unhinged I sounded right then.

His knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Of—of course not. Never.”

“Because you’re grateful for everything we’ve done for you and your family, I’m sure,” I continued, leaning forward.

“Yes.” The word rushed out. “I’m so grateful.”

I reached up and patted his shoulder once, hard enough that the impact carried through his uniform jacket. He flinched.

“That’s good to hear, Branson.” I settled back against the seat, my voice dropping to something almost friendly. “Really good.”

The cruiser eased into the station lot, and lights from the building spilled across the hood. Branson killed the engine, but I was busy going through any other blind spots we needed to monitor.

The Syndicate ran on fear and favors—loyalty was expected. But Carl had been different. There had never been any threats needed or leverage required. He’d simply been loyal because that’s who he was. Or who I’d convinced myself he was . . . and we’d compensated him accordingly.

Years of proof, gone in one grainy video.

He wasn’t just a traitor.

Because it was him, it was personal.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, already thinking in detail of everything I was about to do to Carl.

“Do you like George Orwell, Carl?” I asked as I studied the man in front of me.

The asshole in question was sitting in a metal chair with his wrists zip-tied behind the backrest and his ankles secured to the legs. He had duct tape across his mouth so he couldn’t answer me, but that wasn’t going to stop me from my spiel. I had a lot of pent-up rage at the moment.

The only humorous thing about this situation was that Carl’s black Paradise polo was still tucked neatly into his slacks. Cruz had literally pulled him straight off the casino floor where he’d been working like normal . . . like he hadn’t stabbed us in the fucking back.

Carl had a resigned look in his gaze, the same one he’d probably worn for the last fifteen years every time an employee had fucked up and he’d had to handle something for them.

“Even if you don’t like Orwell, he did have some very interesting points about torture,” I continued. “Want to hear them?”

Carl obviously still didn’t answer me, but again, it didn’t slow me down. Cruz was actually listening for once as well as he leaned against a stack of wooden pallets to my left with his arms folded patiently.

“Orwell said something like . . . When you’re fucking tortured to death, there are no heroes.”

Cruz snorted. “Jags, I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

I shrugged. “It’s close enough, and I still think that’s going to be very applicable today.” I leaned over so Carl and I were eye level. “You thought we wouldn’t figure it out,” I murmured, finally ripping the tape off his mouth so he could answer me.

Carl didn’t rush to respond. He worked his jaw a few times, like he was making sure it still worked, before speaking through the torn strip still clinging to the corner of his mouth. “I thought you’d be slower,” he finally said quietly. “Figured I had another week. Maybe two. I was going to finish a few things before I left.”

I let out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Fifteen years, Carl. There had to be countless people that have tried to turn you during that time. Why now?”

He sighed. “Does it really matter, Jagger? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

“That’s true,” Cruz commented, wrinkling his nose. “But I’d still like to know. I mean, come on . . . the fucking Irish?”

Carl’s gaze shifted from me to Cruz, then back again. For the first time since I walked in, something changed in his eyes. The resignation hardened. Went cold. Like a switch had flipped, and the man who’d spent fifteen years doing everything the Syndicate asked was finally done pretending.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he simply said, “I got tired of saying yes.”

Cruz actually froze. His arms dropped to his sides. For once, the man who ran this entire operation looked genuinely stunned.

I felt the air leave my lungs in a slow, confused rush.

Tired of saying yes.

Fifteen years of quiet nods, of covering for us, of handling the messes no one else wanted to touch, of accepting his ever-increasing pay and bonuses. Fifteen years.

Apparently, his work hadn’t been loyalty . . . it had been boredom.

I stared at Carl, trying to find the lie in his face. Trying to find anything that would make this easier to swallow. But there was nothing. Just that cold, steady gaze looking back at me after he’d finally said the truth he’d evidently been holding in for a decade and a half.

Cruz recovered first. He let out a low, disbelieving laugh that had no humor in it.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he muttered. “You sold us out to the Irish because you were . . . tired?”

Carl didn’t blink. “I didn’t sell you out to the Irish. I sold you out to the people who offered me a way to stop saying yes to everything. The Irish just happened to be the ones who showed up with the right leverage at the right time.”

He shrugged—as much as the zip ties allowed. “You built an empire on people who never say no. I got tired of being one of them.”

The rage didn’t explode. It sank in deep until every breath tasted like it.

“Cruz,” I said quietly. “Tools.”

Cruz didn’t move right away. He was still staring at Carl, struggling to believe what he’d just heard. He finally pushed off the pallets, walked to the metal cabinet, and came back with the black case. He set it on the floor beside me and flipped the latches open.

Carl’s eyes flicked to the contents—pliers, drill, box cutter, blowtorch, bone saws—but the coldness in his gaze didn’t waver.

He looked back at me. “I’m not going to beg,” he said calmly. “So you’re not going to get what you’re looking for.”

I picked up the cordless drill and grinned. “You know, Carl, I’m going to disagree with you on that one.”

I pressed the bit to the back of his left hand—right through the center of the palm—and squeezed the trigger. The motor whined, and the bit punched through skin and bone in a spray of red. Carl’s body locked rigid, a raw scream ripping from his throat. I kept the drill running until the bit came out the other side, then pulled it free. Blood poured from the hole in steady pulses, and his hand twitched uselessly against the zip tie.

I moved to the right hand and did the same slow push in the same spot. The drill bit went through tendon and bone with a wet crunch. Carl’s head fell forward, his body convulsing and his muffled howls turning into wet gurgles.

“Maybe you’re right, Carl. You haven’t begged yet. I’m impressed. Let’s keep going, shall we?”

I picked up the box cutter, slid the blade out, and pressed the tip to the Paradise logo on his polo, cutting slowly until the fabric parted and I reached skin. I didn’t stop at the shirt, obviously. I carved deeper—long lines across his chest, deep enough to part muscle, but not deep enough to hit anything vital yet. The letter T, first, then R, A, I, T, O, R. One letter at a time. Blood welled up in thick sheets, soaking the polo and dripping onto the concrete in dark pools.

Carl was gasping, tears mixing with his sweat and blood. His body was shaking so hard the chair rattled against the floor.

“Please,” he choked out. “Jagger⁠—”

I pressed the blade to his cheek, just under the eye. “That almost sounds like begging, Carl.”

Dragging the blade down slowly, I opened a line from his cheekbone to his jaw. Blood sheeted over his mouth and his chin as he whimpered.

“We once considered you family,” I murmured as I picked up the blowtorch next and lit it. The blue flame hissed to life.

Carl’s eyes widened. “No—please⁠—”

I held the flame close to his left ear—near enough that the hair shriveled away in seconds and the skin began to blister and peel. He screamed, and I moved to the other ear and did the same thing until the flesh had blackened and bubbled, and the smell of charred meat was thick in the air.

Carl passed out twice, and Cruz slapped him awake.

And each time, Carl was begging.

When I finally stepped back, Carl was barely recognizable. His face was a ruin of burns and cuts, and his hands had been drilled through and charred. His chest was carved like the traitor he was.

I turned off the torch and set it down.

“Cruz,” I said quietly, and he stepped forward with the bone saw.

I crouched one last time and grabbed Carl’s hair, lifting his head so he could see me through the swelling.

“You chose the Irish,” I told him. “So now you’ll die like one of them. I hope you aren’t too . . . tired.”

The saw whirred to life as I stepped back, and Carl’s last sound was a gurgle and a sob before Cruz sliced his throat. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, splattering the concrete in dark ropes. The body slumped forward, head lolling, the chair creaking under the sudden dead weight.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Cruz and I both looked up and saw Gage walking toward us, slow--clapping dramatically as he moved. He stopped a few feet away, still clapping, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like admiration.

“Fucking hell, Jagger,” he said, sounding impressed. “That was . . . thorough.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ll get off thinking about it tonight, you sick bastard,” Cruz drawled.

Gage scoffed and rolled his eyes . . . but didn’t say he wouldn’t. That wasn’t comforting.

“While I don’t want to talk about that,” I said, glancing pointedly at Gage, “I do want to talk about how I became a face on the FBI’s list of suspected criminals instead of you, Cruz.”

Cruz’s mouth twitched. “I think we’ve talked about this. A good leader . . . delegates. You’re welcome.”

I snorted. “Yes. A promotion to Vegas FBI’s public enemy number one was just what I needed. How about next time maybe let me take the fall for something that doesn’t come with a lifetime in a federal penitentiary.”

He shrugged. “We’ll be fine. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“Aw. That may have been the sweetest moment I’ve ever seen between the two of you,” mused Gage.

“Yes, it’s much sweeter than his stalking,” I agreed.

Before I could say anything else, the acrid smell of urine hit the air as Carl’s corpse released its bladder in a slow, wet rush—piss pooling under the chair, running in thin streams across the stained concrete, and mixing with the blood already there.

I stared at the spreading puddle in disgust.

“If he can be turned, any of them can be,” said Gage, sounding a little excited about the prospect and all the people he’d be able to torture in that case.

Cruz nodded. “I think it’s time we have a new mantra for everyone outside the five of us,” he said coldly.

“And Eden,” I said automatically, ignoring both of their incredulous stares.

“And that is?” Gage asked.

Cruz’s lips curled in anger as he glanced once more at Carl’s body. “We trust no one.”

When I walked back into the penthouse, Eden was asleep on the couch.

She had a blanket wrapped loosely around her legs, and her head tilted against the cushion like she’d tried to wait up and lost the fight halfway through. The soft light from the lamp beside her painted her in warm gold, making the whole scene look peaceful enough that for a second it almost erased the smell of blood still lingering in my memory.

Almost.

The elevator door slid shut behind me, and her eyes flew open instantly.

She shot upright. “Jagger?”

Her gaze swept over me quickly, moving from my face to my hands to my clothes, the way someone checks for damage after an explosion.

“I’m fine,” I said easily, stepping into the room.

Thank fuck I’d remembered the plastic suit.

I’d almost forgotten when Cruz tossed it to me before we dealt with Carl. If I’d come back wearing different clothes, or worse, smelling like bleach and copper, Eden would have noticed immediately. She noticed everything.

Instead, I looked exactly like I had when I’d left.

She stood and crossed the room quickly. “You were gone a long time.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged as if it were no big deal. “My phone died halfway through. Apparently, when a judge dies in the middle of your casino, they have a lot of questions.”

Her steps slowed. “He died in the casino?” She glanced behind me uneasily as if his ghost were about to come through the elevator doors.

“Mm-hmm.” I tossed my keys onto the counter. “Yes, it’s unfortunate. And made for a very dramatic night.”

She studied my face. “You told them we were in Tennessee all weekend, though, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I did,” I confirmed. “But sometimes these detectives are not the brightest bulbs in the box.”

Her brows pulled together slightly, something about the explanation not quite sitting right for her.

“And they . . . questioned you for hours?”

“It’s my building,” I reminded her gently. “When a body shows up on your carpet, they tend to want more than a few words.”

The crease between her brows didn’t disappear, so I did the smart thing and closed the distance before she could think any harder. My hand slid into her hair as I pulled her into me and kissed her slowly. The question in her eyes melted almost immediately into surprise, then heat. Her fingers grabbed the front of my shirt as she leaned into me without thinking.

When I finally pulled back, her lips were parted slightly, and her focus had shifted completely.

“Everything’s handled,” I murmured.

It definitely wasn’t.

But she didn’t need to know that.

“You look exhausted,” I added, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “We should go to bed.”

She studied my face one more time, like she was trying to decide if she believed me, and then she nodded. Her hand slipped into mine as we walked toward the bedroom.

And for a brief moment, I wondered how long I could keep the monster I’d just been from bleeding into the life I’d just walked back into.

Long enough, I decided.

I didn’t plan on losing her.

CHAPTER 36

EDEN

Jagger had not been thrilled when I told him I was going to work.

“Eden,” he’d said slowly, like he was explaining gravity to a particularly stubborn child. “You don’t have to work.”

“I know,” I’d replied.

Which had been exactly the problem.

Because if I stopped working completely, then suddenly everything in my life—where I lived, my food, my clothes, the air I breathed—would belong to him. And while the idea of belonging to Jagger Thatcher in certain contexts made my stomach flip in ways that were definitely not practical . . .

The rest of my brain still needed a little independence.

So, I was at the casino.

Which meant noise and lights and the constant churn of voices and chips and machines, familiar chaos that had once felt normal and now felt strangely small compared to the world Jagger had started showing me.

I was weaving between tables with a tray of drinks when a hand suddenly clamped down on my ass . . . and it wasn’t just a brush. It was a full squeeze. I spun halfway around automatically, glaring at the back of a middle-aged man already pretending to focus on the blackjack table as if he hadn’t just committed sexual assault.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered under my breath.

Honestly though . . . between things like that and the constant wandering hands of drunk businessmen, Jagger’s offer to quit was starting to look more and more appealing. “Eden.”

I looked over and saw Leigh was standing near the service station, her eyes huge and bright in that way they got whenever she had a piece of gossip she couldn’t wait to unload. Except this time there was something else mixed in with it.

Nerves.

“Can you take a five-minute break?” she whispered.

That alone made me pause. Leigh never voluntarily stepped away from the floor. Not when there were rich men wandering around looking bored.

“Yeah,” I said slowly, setting my tray down. “What’s going on?”

We slipped into the small employee hallway behind the bar, where the noise of the casino dropped to a dull roar.

Leigh ran both hands through her hair. “I think I’m going crazy,” she blurted.

That was not how Leigh usually opened conversations. Normally it was You will not believe what I just heard followed by a ten-minute breakdown of someone’s divorce or secret mistress.

“Okay,” I said carefully. “That’s a strong opener.”

“I think something happened to Carl.”

I blinked. “Like . . . he got fired?”

The words came out before my brain caught up, and only then did I realize something strange.

Carl wasn’t here . . . and he was always here. Carl had worked this floor longer than anyone. He practically lived at Paradise.

Leigh shook her head fast, her hair bouncing. “Yesterday,” she said, her voice dropping even lower, “I saw Cruz Vale come down onto the floor and take him into the back.”

I pursed my lips thinking of Jagger’s best friend. “And?” I asked.

“And Carl never came back.”

She looked at me as if that sentence alone should explain everything.

I shrugged. “Well . . . maybe he just⁠—”

“No,” Leigh cut me off, her eyes wide. “Eden, there was something in Cruz’s eyes. It was—” She shivered a little. “It was terrifying.”

I snorted softly. “Cruz is one of the owners of the casino. I’m sure it was just some kind of staffing issue.”

“But don’t you think it’s weird?” she pushed.

“Weird how?”

“The email from HR this morning,” she said quickly. “It didn’t say Carl had left or anything. They just introduced a new guy like everything was normal. I think the new guy is his replacement, though!”

I hesitated. That email had been . . . odd. “You said you saw him walk off with Cruz?” I asked.

Leigh nodded frantically. “Yes. I watched them go down the hallway.”

“Well,” I said slowly, forcing my voice to sound reasonable even as unease began to coil in my chest, “I’m sure it’s fine. Maybe he quit. His job had to have felt like a lot after so long.”

Leigh’s hand shot out and grabbed my arm. The sudden grip made me jump.

Tears were filling her eyes. “I’ve been sleeping with him,” she whispered.

My brain stalled. “Oh.”

“I called him,” she said shakily. “And he didn’t answer. So I drove by his house this morning before work, and no one answered the door, and his car wasn’t there, and⁠—”

Her voice broke. “I think something happened to him.”

My chest tightened. I reached up automatically and patted her arm, trying to soothe her the way you do when someone spirals. “I’m sure he’s okay,” I said gently.

Leigh shook her head, but I could see the way she was clinging to that reassurance anyway.

“I’ll ask Jagger about it,” I added after a moment.

Her head snapped up. “You will?”

“Yeah,” I said. “If something happened here, he’d probably know. Or at least know who would.”

Leigh’s fingers tightened around my arm. “Eden . . . be careful,” she said quickly. “Okay? Promise me you’ll be careful.”

I stared at her for a second. Then I laughed.

“You’re acting like I’m going to interrogate the mob,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m just asking my boyfriend a question.”

Leigh didn’t laugh with me. She still looked nervous.

And that strange feeling in my chest tightened just a little more.

***

Jagger

The guy started talking the second Cruz shoved him into the back room. “Hey—hey—what the hell is this?” he blurted, stumbling as the door slammed behind him.

He turned, taking in the concrete walls, the metal table, and the fact that there was only one exit and it was currently occupied. Cruz was leaning against the door and smirking, the same expression he’d worn since I’d told him what was about to happen.

I rolled my sleeves up. “Do you remember grabbing the ass of one of my employees about ten minutes ago?” I asked calmly.

The man blinked at me, then scoffed like the whole thing was ridiculous. “Oh come on,” he said, waving a hand. “I was just having a little fun with the cocktail waitress.”

Cruz slowly rubbed his face as if he was bracing for a migraine. “That’s what you decided to go with?” he asked. He looked at me. “Do you want to let him try again, or should we just fast-forward to the consequences?”

The guy shrugged, acting as though he were the victim here. “This is Vegas,” he continued. “Isn’t that what girls like that are for?”

I blinked at him, not because I hadn’t heard him, but because I genuinely could not believe that was the sentence he’d chosen to say out loud.

Cruz straightened slowly, his amusement draining away. “Oof,” he said under his breath. “I really thought he was going to recover there.”

I flexed my hand and then stepped forward and grabbed his wrist.

He jerked back instinctively, but I yanked his arm straight and slammed his palm flat on the metal table. Then I brought my other fist down hard on the back of his hand, putting every ounce of my weight behind it.

His bones splintered under his skin with a muffled crunch that vibrated up my arm. His middle and ring fingers collapsed inward at impossible angles, the knuckles folding into the palm like crushed paper. Blood immediately welled between the joints, bright red against the table’s dull gray.

He didn’t scream at first, just sucked in a shocked, whistling breath, his eyes huge, and his mouth open in silent disbelief.

Then the pain caught up.

A raw, animal howl tore out of him that echoed off the concrete. His knees buckled, and he tried to yank away, but I kept his wrist pinned, grinding the ruined hand against the table so he felt every fractured piece shift.

Cruz winced theatrically. “Hopefully he’s left-handed, because that hand’s not going to be able to grab a dick for a long time.”

The guy started sliding down the chair, gasping like he couldn’t get air. “You broke it!” he choked.

I crouched down in front of him. “Yes,” I said calmly. “I did.”

Cruz wandered over, peering down at the hand. “You know,” he added conversationally, “if you’d gone with ‘I’m sorry,’ this probably would’ve gone a different direction.”

The man’s face had gone pale and slick with sweat. “You can’t do this,” he panted. “I’ll call the police.”

I tilted my head slightly. “Will you?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes! I’ll call the police and⁠—”

“Rebecca Miller,” I said quietly.

He froze.

“Your wife,” I continued. “She’s currently asleep in your house on Sandstone Ridge Drive. Number 4821, if I remember correctly.”

The color drained from his face, and I watched the fear settle in.

“Oh,” I said softly. “And you work at an accounting firm downtown, right? Hargrove and Bell?”

His mouth dropped open as he stared at me in shock. “You . . . you can’t—” The guy’s eyes darted between us. “My—my wife⁠—”

“Yes,” I said pleasantly. “Rebecca. I’m sure she would love to know about all of your extracurriculars.”

His breathing turned ragged, and I leaned forward just enough that he couldn’t look away from me. “Listen carefully,” I told him, “because I’m only going to say this once.”

His head bobbed frantically.

“If you ever come to one of our casinos again,” I continued, my voice still conversational, “I’m not breaking your hand.”

Cruz folded his arms. “Oh no,” he said. “We’re definitely past hands at that point.”

I smiled faintly. “I’ll remove it.”

The guy started shaking.

“Or worse,” I added.

Tears spilled down his face. “I’m sorry,” he blubbered. “I swear, I don’t usually do that—I won’t do anything like that again, I swear⁠—”

Cruz crouched beside me, studying him like a science project. “You know what the interesting part is?” he said thoughtfully.

The man looked at him desperately. “What?”

Cruz shrugged. “You didn’t think you were doing anything wrong,” he said. “You thought you were entitled.”

The guy’s mouth opened and closed uselessly.

Cruz glanced at the mangled hand still pinned beneath mine. “And tonight you just happened to grab the one woman in this building who comes with immediate consequences.”

He patted the guy lightly on the shoulder. “Bad luck, buddy.” Cruz pulled out his phone and typed a quick message.

Thirty seconds later, the back door opened, and two of our security guys stepped in.

“Get him out of here,” ordered Cruz.

The man looked between us wildly. “Thank you,” he gasped as they hauled him upright. “Thank you, I won’t—I swear I won’t—” He started crying again as they led him out of the room.

Cruz glanced at me, straightening his velvet fucking suit. “You know,” he said casually, “I feel like we handled that professionally.”

I considered it.

“Very,” I agreed.

CHAPTER 37

EDEN

By the time my shift ended, my feet ached, and my thoughts were tangled in one persistent loop.

Carl.

The new floor manager, Oliver, had stepped in without missing a beat. He’s been confident, organized . . . efficient. If I hadn’t worked alongside Carl for the last few years, I might not have questioned the transition at all. The casino hadn’t skipped a beat. The tables were full. The money was flowing. On the surface, nothing felt disrupted.

But Carl had been out on the floor just yesterday. And now he was apparently . . . gone.

Leigh’s tear-bright eyes and trembling hands kept flashing through my mind. I told myself she was panicking. She panicked about everything—bad tips, missed texts, divorce rumors.

Still.

I needed to ask Jagger.

Not because I thought anything bad had happened. Just because if Carl had been fired or quit suddenly, he would know. And if there was a perfectly normal explanation, then I could give Leigh something to make her feel better.

I stepped into the private elevator and swiped the keycard that granted access to the penthouse. The doors slid closed with a soft hiss, sealing me in. As it climbed, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. My eyes seemed dulled by hours under artificial lights, and my mascara was faintly smudged at the corners. Perfect. The casino had a way of draining the color out of you, like it fed on energy and left behind whatever was still standing.

The numbers ticked upward . . . but then the elevator didn’t stop. It passed the penthouse floor without slowing.

I frowned, glancing up at the display as it continued climbing. “That’s not right,” I murmured. I stepped forward and pressed the PH button again, but it just kept going. I hadn’t even known there were floors above Jagger’s place.

The car continued climbing for another few seconds, and then it finally stopped. There was a soft mechanical sound I’d never heard before, and then the doors slid open.

A burst of wind slammed into my face, whipping my hair back as the roar of an engine cut through the night. I blinked against it, stepping forward instinctively—and realized I wasn’t staring at a hallway.

I was standing on the roof.

The night sky stretched wide above the building, the Las Vegas skyline glittering in every direction. And directly in front of the elevator, a helicopter waited with its blades already spinning, the rotors slicing through the air in a thunderous rhythm that whipped the wind around me.

“Ready to go?” The words came from behind me, and I startled and turned.

Jagger was standing just inside the elevator doorway. I hadn’t even heard him coming over the roar. His shirtsleeves were pushed up, the dark fabric rippling in the wind, and his hair was already tousled as if he’d been standing out here for quite some time.

He looked amused by my shock, and my heart did something erratic in my chest. “What is this?” I asked as he stepped forward and pulled me into him. He smiled down at me like I was adorable.

“Happy anniversary.”

I blinked. “What?”

“We’ve been together for three months today.”

I stared at him. “We have not been together for three months.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Haven’t we?”

“No,” I said, almost laughing. “And you know that.”

“Three months ago,” he said, leaning closer so I could hear him over the blades, “you walked into my high roller room.”

My stomach dipped.

“And I knew,” he continued quietly. “I knew I had to have you.”

The words sent a breath-stealing rush through me. “That’s insane,” I whispered.

“Probably.” His hands tightened just slightly at my waist. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

I searched his face, half expecting a joke . . . but there wasn’t one. “So you’ve just been . . . counting from that night?” I asked.

“Yes.”

My heart pounded. “That’s not how relationships work.”

“It is for me.”

The rotor wash surged harder, and he stepped closer, shielding me instinctively with his body.

“Three months since the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice dropping. “Three months since I decided you were mine.”

“Jagger,” I whispered, swooning despite all the red flags this man continued to give me. Why did it somehow feel romantic when he did things like handcuff me to him or casually declare that our relationship had begun the first time we met—when I was still married?

A therapist could probably answer this.

He grinned, probably knowing exactly what I was thinking. “Come on, Eden,” he said. “Let’s celebrate and go for a ride.”

And standing there, with the wind whipping around us and the city glowing beneath us, I realized something terrifyingly simple. I would follow Jagger Thatcher anywhere.

He guided me toward the helicopter with one hand firm on my lower back. The pilot nodded at us as Jagger helped me inside. The interior was sleek and surprisingly intimate, with leather seats facing each other. A small bucket of champagne sat secured between them.

“At two in the morning?” I asked as he climbed in after me.

“Time is a suggestion,” he replied, fastening my headset over my ears before pouring two glasses with steady hands despite the vibration.

The helicopter lifted, the ground dropping away so quickly that my breath caught. The Strip spread out beneath us in a blaze of color—towering marquees flashing, rooftop pools glowing turquoise in the dark, the Eiffel Tower replica lit in molten gold, and the massive Sphere rippling with shifting light while traffic traced bright, restless lines through the city below.

Jagger leaned closer, pointing through the glass. “That’s where I’m taking you to dinner next week,” he said, indicating a rooftop restaurant I’d only ever seen from the sidewalk. “And that hotel—I’ll book the top floor suite one night. I want you to see the city from there.”

My gaze tracked wherever he pointed.

“That club,” he continued. “They have a private entrance just for Cruz and me. And next month—” He gestured beyond the Strip. “We’ll take this out to the Grand Canyon so you can see the sunset. It’s incredible.”

I looked down at the restless sprawl below us. “I’ve hated Vegas for a long time,” I admitted softly.

Jagger glanced at me instead of the view.

“It felt fake,” I continued. “Like everything was glitter on top of something rotting. It felt like it chewed people up and then spit them back out changed.” My throat tightened. “It ruined Ryan . . . or maybe it just . . . finished the job.” I watched the traffic crawling below, the hotels stacked high and bright and impossible. “I used to feel like it was doing the same thing to me,” I said.

“And now?” Jagger asked.

I took a sip of my champagne. “Now,” I said slowly, “it feels different.”

“How?”

I glanced at him. “Like it’s not swallowing me anymore,” I admitted. “Like I’m above it.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You are.”

The helicopter banked, the entire Strip unfolding beneath us in a slow sweep. I turned the champagne glass in my hand, watching the bubbles catch the light, and looked down at the city I’d spent years resenting.

It didn’t feel like the same place. Or maybe I wasn’t the same girl.

For so long, Vegas had felt like a trap . . . like something that had taken and taken until there wasn’t much left of me that wasn’t tired. Every corner held a memory of something heavy. Of working double shifts. Of Ryan coming home later and later. Of watching pieces of us rot under all that shine.

But up here, with Jagger’s hand steady in mine and his voice in my ear and the wind roaring around us . . . it didn’t feel like a trap.

It felt like a backdrop. Like something he was rewriting.

“I think you’re fixing it for me,” I said softly.

His brow lifted.

“You’re replacing all the bad parts,” I clarified.

“Good,” he said quietly. “That’s the point.”

I looked back down at the city—at the lights, the motion, the restless pulse of it—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like it was taking something from me.

It felt like he was making it give it all back.

“Because I don’t plan on letting this place have you,” Jagger murmured, his hold on my hand growing firmer. “You’re mine.”

***

I was in love with Jagger Thatcher, and it didn’t feel gentle.

It felt like an impact.

Like something inside my chest had been struck hard enough to crack it open, and instead of bleeding out, light poured in.

Being near him rewired me. The air shifted when he walked into a room. My body recognized him before my mind caught up—my pulse changing tempo, my skin tightening, my thoughts narrowing until there was only him. It wasn’t infatuation. It was gravity.

He didn’t hover at the edges of my life.

He occupied it.

And the terrifying part wasn’t how intense he was . . . it was how certain I felt standing in it. There was no wobble. No half step backward.

Falling for him wasn’t drifting. It was surrendering to something powerful and knowing it wouldn’t crush me. It was letting myself be seen at my loudest, neediest, and most unguarded—and watching him step closer instead of retreat.

It felt reckless and irreversible. It felt like standing at the center of a storm and realizing the storm chose you back.

It also felt like getting the best fuck of my life.

My palms were flat against the cool glass, the city lights dancing across my skin. The penthouse was silent except for the sound of our rough breathing and the wet, rhythmic slap of his hips meeting my ass.

Jagger had me bent forward, one hand wrapped around my throat from behind, the other braced on the window beside mine. His cock drove into me again, each thrust pushing my breasts against the glass and scraping my nipples against the cold surface until they ached in the best way. The piercing dragged along my front wall every time he pulled back, hitting that spot that made my vision blur and my knees threaten to give out.

“Jagger—” His name came out as a plea.

He groaned against my neck, and his teeth grazed my pulse. “Say it again.”

“Jagger,” I cried out desperately.

He rewarded me with a harder thrust, his hips snapping forward until I was pressed fully against the window, breasts flattened, and my breath fogging the glass in short, frantic bursts. The city sprawled beneath us, and I somehow felt powerful . . . wanted . . . seen.

His hand slid from my throat to my jaw, turning my face so I could see him in the reflection. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but there was something softer there now—something that looked almost like awe.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasped. “Look at you. Naked against our window, taking my cock like you were made for it. Like you were made for me.”

I moaned and pushed back harder, chasing the stretch and the fullness . . . the way he filled every empty place inside me until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. His free hand slid down my stomach, and he found my clit and circled it with ruthless precision, slow at first, then faster, matching the perfect rhythm of his thrusts.

I arched my back, pushing my ass higher, taking him deeper. “Jagger . . .”

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded. “Tell me how bad you need to come on my cock.”

“I need it,” I gasped. “I need to come. Please . . . don’t stop.”

He snarled low in his throat and fucked me harder, his hips slamming forward with bruising force. “Come for me,” he ordered roughly. “Come all over my cock while the whole fucking city watches you fall apart for me.”

The orgasm didn’t crash. It built like a storm gathering force—starting as a tight coil in my core that unraveled outward in slow, shuddering ripples, each one pulling him farther inside with greedy insistence. My body gripped him in deep, insistent squeezes . . . long, rolling contractions that locked around every ridge, every vein, refusing to release until the friction turned electric. His piercing scraped that sensitive bundle of nerves with each retreat, amplifying the build until my thighs quivered and my toes curled against the floor.

I moaned, and my fingers scraped the glass, my nails leaving faint trails in the condensation as pleasure surged through me like liquid fire, heating my blood until it felt as if it might boil over. My hips bucked involuntarily, grinding back against him, drawing out the sensation until stars burst behind my eyelids and my breath came in short, desperate hitches.

Jagger kept thrusting through every shuddering aftershock, drawing them out until I sobbed from the overstimulation, until my legs gave out and he had to catch me with one arm banded around my waist.

He suddenly pulled out, leaving me achingly empty. Before I could catch my breath, his hands were on my hips, spinning me around with effortless strength. My back hit the cool glass as we faced each other fully.

The city lights washed over his face in shifting gold and blue, and I could see everything in his eyes: raw hunger, fierce need, and something deeper, something that made my chest ache with how much I felt it mirrored inside me.

He thrust back into me, his eyes locked on mine so I couldn’t look away. His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me higher, pinning me between his body and the window as he moved.

Our lips met . . . and it was like our story had already been written somewhere between us and he was just sealing it into place. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against mine, our breaths mixing in the small space between us, his eyes searching my face as if this moment mattered more than anything else in the world. “I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you so fucking much, Eden.”

For a second I could only stare at him, the weight of those words sinking in, spreading through me until it felt like my heart might burst.

And suddenly hearing them from Jagger Thatcher made me understand something that should have been obvious all along.

I had never loved anyone before.

Whatever I had felt for Ryan had been something that fit neatly into the life I thought I was supposed to have. It had never filled me up like this or made my pulse race or my chest ache or my whole world tilt on its axis.

This—Jagger—was different.

This was overwhelming.

All-consuming.

This was the kind of love that made everything else in your life rearrange itself around it.

My hands slid up into his hair, and I pulled him back down, kissing him hard enough to steal his breath the way he had stolen mine.

“I love you, too,” I whispered against his mouth, my voice trembling under the weight of it.

“I love you, Jagger.” His name felt sacred when I said it, and I brushed another kiss across his lips. “Always.”

He exhaled as if the confession had punched the air out of him. His thrusts slowed even more, changing into long, rolling strokes that let me feel every inch, every pulse, every shudder that ran through him.

Jagger reached up to cradle my face. “I’m never letting you go,” he murmured against my lips. “Never.”

“Never,” I echoed.

He buried his face in my neck as he spilled inside me, and I clung to him, my legs tightening around his waist as we rode out the aftershocks until we were both trembling.

“I love you,” he said again as he carried me down the hall to our bed, still buried deep, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between us.

We collapsed onto the sheets together, our hearts beating in the same frantic cadence.

And for the first time in my life, a man’s promise didn’t feel like something fragile.

It felt like something unbreakable.

CHAPTER 38

JAGGER

Iinhaled the smell of gun oil, fresh-cut plywood, and the dry desert dust that always seeped through the warehouse cracks no matter how tight we kept the doors.

Men moved quickly under the fluorescent lights, sealing weapons into foam-lined cases and sliding them into eighteen-wheelers that would be gone before the sun came up. There had been too many close calls with the Irish lately, so Cruz and I were personally making sure these made it onto the trucks.

Vegas glittered miles away, but out here on the outskirts, the desert swallowed the noise of the city until the only sounds left were metal on concrete and the pop of nail guns sealing crates.

I stood at the center table, watching a case of rifles get locked down.

Across from me, Cruz leaned against a steel beam, lazily flipping a knife open and closed while he supervised the loading crew.

“You know,” he said after a moment, glancing around the warehouse as he picked up a clipboard and started checking things off a list, “when I imagined my adult life, I didn’t picture this many spreadsheets.”

I didn’t bother looking up. “You’re welcome to go back to investment banking.”

He considered it thoughtfully.

“Tempting,” he admitted, “but then I’d have to die of boredom instead of because I got shot or poisoned, and we can’t have that.”

A forklift carrying a pallet of ammunition crates rumbled past us, and I sighed. We were slightly behind, and I just wanted to get back to Eden.

The thought had barely finished forming before the side door burst open.

Gage stumbled through, one hand clamped to his side where blood was soaking through his shirt and dripping onto the concrete in fat, dark drops. His other hand was still gripping a Glock.

“They’re coming,” he groaned. He took two more steps, and then his knees buckled. The gun clattered to the floor as he hit the concrete hard, unconscious before he even finished falling.

The warehouse froze for half a second.

Cruz moved first, running over and dropping to one knee beside Gage as he pressed fingers to his neck. “His pulse is thready—he’s bleeding out!”

He jumped up and began to yell something to the crew, but I couldn’t focus.

For one of the first times in my life . . . I was feeling fear.

Because suddenly every guard I’d stationed at the casino didn’t feel like enough.

Not nearly enough.

“Zachary!” I yelled, and he appeared almost immediately from the shadows near the back exit.

“Get to the penthouse,” I ordered. “Protect her. No one gets near her. No one. You understand?”

Zachary nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

“Go. Now.”

He didn’t hesitate. He scooped Gage’s Glock off the floor, checked the chamber, and sprinted for the side door.

The crew was scattering, some grabbing rifles from the open crates, some heading for defensive positions. Cruz was pulling a weapon from the nearest pallet and checking the mag.

I knelt by Gage, ripped my shirtsleeve off, and pressed the fabric hard against the wound. Blood soaked through instantly. “Stay with me, buddy,” I muttered. “You don’t get to bleed out in our fucking warehouse.”

Cruz crouched on the other side, applying pressure with both hands. “He’s losing too much. We need to move him.”

Shouts erupted outside as boots pounded across the gravel. Car doors slammed, and engines roared to life. A heartbeat later, gunfire split the night, sharp bursts tearing through the metal siding.

The crew returned fire immediately. Bullets whined overhead, sparking off steel beams and ricocheting against concrete.

Dragging Gage behind a stack of pallets, I propped him against the wood. Cruz handed me a rifle, and I checked the mag, racked a round, and rose just as the main loading doors exploded inward.

Men poured through in black tactical gear, their rifles up, moving with disciplined efficiency. Irish accents barked orders over the gunfire.

And then Declan stepped into the light.

The same Declan I’d warned away in the high roller room the night I met Eden. Same cold eyes, same crooked smile, same arrogance that had made me want to put a bullet in him right then and there.

He raised a hand, and his men stopped shooting. The warehouse fell into an eerie, ringing quiet broken only by the groan of settling metal and Gage’s shallow breathing.

Declan spread his arms like he was greeting old friends. “Evening, lads,” he called. “Nice night for a bit of business.”

Cruz stepped forward beside me, his rifle trained on Declan’s chest. I flanked him, my finger resting lightly on the trigger. I lifted my gun slightly. “You should’ve listened the last time we spoke.”

Declan smirked. “I’ve never been too good at that,” he said.

“Is this where he explains the master plan?” Cruz asked mildly. “Because I hate exposition.”

Declan laughed. “We’re not here just to chat, boys. We’re here to end you. But we’re not going to kill you quickly. No. We’re saving that for after we’ve got Thatcher’s pretty little girlfriend. Thought I’d stop by and let you know the plan. Fair warning, yeah? She’ll be screaming your name while we carve pieces off her. Slowly. So you can hear every second of it before we finish you.”

My blood turned to ice, then to fire so hot it scorched every thought.

Cruz’s jaw locked beside me. “We’re going to kill you, Declan. No matter what, I’m going to personally cut off your dick and shove it down your throat. I hope you’re ready for that.”

Declan’s face fell slightly. Anyone who’d heard anything about Cruz knew that he didn’t make idle threats.

I wasn’t sure at the moment how he was going to pull this one off, but I wasn’t going to bet against him. I just hoped he had a good plan.

I had to get back to Eden.

“Big words, Vale.” Declan smirked. “But you’re outnumbered. And we’re already moving. By the time I kill you—she’ll be ours. And Jagger will get to watch the videos. Every cut. Every scream. Every time she begs for you. Then we’ll put a bullet in both of your heads while she’s still screaming your names.”

He nodded to his men, and they opened fire.

Cruz and I dove behind the pallets. Bullets chewed through the wood, sparking off the metal and filling the air with the acrid stink of spent rounds. We returned fire—two quick bursts from me, three from Cruz—dropping the first three men inching toward us in sprays of red.

We moved, cover to cover, picking them off while trying to buy time we didn’t have.

But there were too many.

A round clipped the top of my shoulder, and I grunted as pain burned through me and blood began soaking my shirt. Gritting my teeth, I kept firing.

Cruz took a hit to his vest and went down, cursing for a second before rolling to new cover.

I emptied the rifle into the nearest group creeping down one of the aisles, dropping two more before the bolt locked back. A gun cracked somewhere behind me, and I whirled around . . . but I was too late.

Something smashed into the side of my head hard enough to make the floor tilt sideways.

I dropped to my knees as Declan stepped into view, smiling down at me. “Nighty night, lad. I’ll tell your girl you did your best.”

The last thing I saw before the dark rushed in was his boot coming toward my face.

And the only thought in my head was Eden.

I’m sorry, I whispered.

I’m so fucking sorry for what’s about to happen to you.

Eden

The television murmured quietly in the background, some afternoon talk show host laughing a little too brightly at a joke that didn’t land. I wasn’t really watching it. The remote rested loosely in my hand while I sat curled into the corner of the couch, my legs tucked under me as I stared toward the screen without actually seeing it.

My shift started in an hour . . . and it was my last one.

For the past few weeks, every time I’d walked onto the casino floor, I’d felt dread, and I’d finally gotten the courage to take the leap and be done.

One more shift. One last night in this uniform, weaving between tables and pretending I didn’t hear the comments men tossed after me.

For the first time in my life, I had someone I could trust to catch me when I jumped.

The future finally felt like something I could actually shape instead of something I had to endure, and I’d already signed up for some online college classes.

I was so fucking ready.

The audience laughed again, and I sighed, wishing Jagger wasn’t in a meeting across town with investors . . . even though it felt ridiculous how much I missed him.

As if the universe had read my mind, the elevator chimed, and I glanced up automatically, a small smile already tugging at my mouth. Jagger had a habit of showing up earlier than expected . . . because he always missed me, too.

But when the doors slid open, it wasn’t him. It was Zachary.

He stepped out quickly, the doors whispering closed behind him, and something about the way he moved made the smile fade from my face almost immediately. Zachary was always calm and composed. He had always seemed like the kind of man nothing in the world could surprise.

But right now he looked tense.

His gaze swept the room quickly before settling on me.

“Miss Thorne,” he said.

The way he said it made my stomach tighten.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, pushing myself upright on the couch.

He crossed the room in a few quick strides. “Mr. Thatcher sent me,” he said quietly.

The words did nothing to calm the unease creeping through me.

“Why?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

Zachary glanced toward the elevator again, his jaw tightening slightly like he was listening for something. “Someone is going to be here in a moment,” he said.

The dread that had been simmering in my chest suddenly flared into something much sharper.

“And?” I asked.

He looked back at me, and there was something grim in his eyes that made my throat tighten. “And it’s going to be bad.”

My fingers curled into the couch cushion beside me. “What does that mean?” I whispered.

Zachary stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Mr. Thatcher asked me to try to make sure you were safe. And I’m going to do my best . . .”

Safe.

“What are you keeping me safe from?” I asked.

He studied me for a second, and then something in his expression softened just slightly. “Miss Thorne,” he said quietly, “I’m going to need you to be brave for him.”

The tears came instantly, stinging my eyes before I could stop them. “Zachary,” I said shakily. “What’s happening? Is Jagger all right?”

Zachary didn’t answer. He had already turned away from me, his entire posture stiffening as he faced the elevator doors again. I watched him reach under his jacket and pull out a gun, and my breath caught as he raised it steadily and aimed it at the metal doors. “Fuck,” he growled as we both heard the quiet mechanical rise of the elevator.

His head turned slightly toward me, his voice suddenly frantic. “Eden, run!”

My body moved before my brain caught up. I bolted down the hallway just as the elevator chimed behind me.

A split second later a gunshot exploded through the penthouse.

Zachary shouted something, but the words blurred into the roar of blood rushing through my ears.

I ran harder.

The hallway seemed impossibly long as I sprinted toward the emergency exit at the far end, my bare feet slipping slightly against the polished floor as panic clawed its way up my throat.

I was almost there when I heard the emergency exit door burst open. The heavy metal slam echoed down the hallway, followed by the pounding of boots and voices spilling into the stairwell.

They were coming from both directions.

My chest seized with terror, and I spun around and darted into the bedroom. I rushed straight for the closet, shoving through the hanging clothes until the soft fabric surrounded me.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway as I crouched low behind the rows of jackets and dresses, pressing a hand over my mouth as my heart pounded wildly in my chest.

Another door slammed somewhere near the stairwell as a second group came through the emergency exit.

They were everywhere.

The bedroom door creaked open. “Search the place,” a rough voice said. I listened, shaking, as boots crossed the room and glass shattered somewhere near the bathroom.

I squeezed my eyes shut, barely daring to breathe as the men moved through the penthouse.

One of them stepped into the bedroom again. “Boss said she’s here,” another voice muttered.

“Well, she’s not in the other rooms,” the first man snapped.

There was a slight pause, and then footsteps moved closer.

Toward me.

My pulse roared so loudly I was certain they would hear it through the door. Then the closet door handle turned, and the soft click echoed in the silence as the door creaked open, and every muscle in my body locked. I stayed crouched behind the hanging clothes, pressing my hand tighter over my mouth, my lungs already burning from trying to keep my breathing quiet.

Slow footsteps crossed the closet floor, and then they stopped.

For a moment there was nothing. No movement. No sound. Just that awful feeling settling in my chest—the certainty that something terrible was about to happen and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.

Fabric tore across my face as a hand suddenly ripped through the hanging jackets, pushing them forcefully out of the way. A man’s face appeared through the gap, his eyes lighting with cruel amusement when he saw me crouched there.

“Boo.”

I screamed.

He lunged forward immediately, grabbing my arm and hauling me out of the closet so violently that my shoulder wrenched painfully. I stumbled as he dragged me upright, my heart slamming against my ribs while panic flooded through me.

“No!” I cried, twisting hard as I tried to yank free.

“Got her!” he shouted toward the hallway.

I clawed at his arm, my nails scraping uselessly against his sleeve as he dragged me out of the bedroom. My bare feet slid against the floor as I struggled, kicking and twisting, but his grip only tightened.

“Let me go!” I gasped.

“Stop fighting,” he snarled, jerking me forward hard enough to knock me off balance.

The hallway blurred past as he hauled me toward the living room. We rounded the corner, and I cried out when I saw Zachary. He was lying on the floor near the elevator, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, dark blood spreading across the polished wood beneath him in a widening pool.

So much blood.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Zachary—” The name broke apart into a sob as the man yanked me forward again, dragging me past Zachary like the sight of a body bleeding out on the floor meant absolutely nothing.

But I guess it didn’t to these people.

He hauled me straight to the elevator and shoved me inside hard enough that I stumbled and caught myself against the metal wall. Three more men crowded in behind us before I could even think about running. The doors slid shut with a quiet mechanical whisper, sealing me inside the small space with them.

Their eyes moved over me slowly.

One of them leaned back against the wall casually, his gaze dragging down my body in a way that made my stomach twist. “Well,” he said, his voice thick with amusement, “he’s got good taste.”

Another man chuckled under his breath, and the one holding my arm tightened his grip.

My heart was pounding so violently it felt like it might burst through my ribs, but the fear twisting through my chest suddenly shifted into something hotter. Anger.

Before I could stop myself, I spat straight at the man who had spoken.

The glob hit his cheek.

He froze for half a second, then his hand cracked across my face so fast and hard my head snapped to the side. Pain exploded across my cheekbone, white-hot and ringing. I cried out, tasting copper where my lip split against my teeth.

Wiping his face with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowed. “Little bitch⁠—”

The man continued to glare at me, clearly thinking about how much he wanted to rip my head off, and the third one—the one by the panel—grabbed his wrist before he could swing again. “It’s not time to have fun yet,” he said lazily. “Boss wants her boyfriend to see it all happen. Every second. Every scream. We need to keep her pretty for the camera.”

I pressed my back against the wall, my chest heaving as pain throbbed across my burning cheek. A tear slipped free and tracked down my face.

The elevator lurched downward.

And all I could think was Jagger’s name, over and over, like a prayer he’d never hear in time.

CHAPTER 39

JAGGER

Iwoke up coughing.

Hard, violent coughs tore out of my chest, scraping my throat raw as my lungs seized against the choking darkness. Exhaust fumes flooded my mouth with every breath I dragged in, coating my tongue like oil. The air tasted of gasoline and burnt rubber, thick and foul as it filled my lungs.

My head pounded, a deep throb pulsing through my skull in time with my heartbeat. I tried to sit up and immediately slammed my forehead into rigid metal, the impact sending a burst of pain behind my eyes.

A trunk.

I was in a fucking trunk.

My arms were wrenched behind my back, zip ties cutting deep into my wrists until I could feel blood slicking my fingers. Every movement pulled at the raw, burning line across the top of my shoulder where the bullet had clipped me, the wound throbbing sharply with my pulse. My ankles were bound, too, forcing my legs together while my knees jammed painfully against the wheel well. The space around me was suffocatingly small, my shoulders wedged tight, my spine curved awkwardly as every shallow inhale pushed my chest against the lid above me.

Another cough tore out of me and burned my lungs as I tried to figure out what was happening. I was pretty sure whatever vehicle I was in wasn’t moving because I couldn’t hear any road noise . . .

I tested the bindings, starting with my wrists. The zip ties bit deeper when I twisted, the plastic grinding into my skin without the slightest give. I tried to work a hand beneath the tie, but the edge only cut sharper, cinched tight enough that whoever had done it knew exactly what they were doing.

My ankles were worse. They’d been pulled together so tight my feet were already starting to go numb. I rocked my body, trying to roll onto my side, but the space was too small. Every time I shifted, my knees slammed into the lid above me.

Motherfucker.

Okay, Jagger. Calm down. Breathe. Let’s think this through.

I cataloged what I knew. Gage had been shot—badly. Cruz had also been shot but had been mostly okay when I got knocked out. Declan’s crew had overwhelmed us. They’d said they were going for Eden.

Eden.

The thought of her hit like a fresh bullet, and my pulse spiked. Zachary had gone to the penthouse. He was good, and I had at least six other guards that had been guarding the doors. It was also in a public building, but . . .

I shoved my panic down. Panic got people killed. I needed to get out and get to her . . . get to all of them.

My bound hands swept along the trunk floor, searching for anything. A release latch. A spare tire iron. Even a loose screw. Nothing. The carpet had been glued down tight. There were no tools or gaps.

I rocked again, harder this time, and shoulder screamed in protest, but the bindings didn’t budge.

Teeth clenched, I tried the wrist trick again, flexing my hands and working the zip tie toward the heel of my palm. My skin tore and blood slicked my fingers and . . . still nothing.

I was stuck.

Trapped like a fucking rat.

And every second I spent in here, Eden was⁠—

The trunk lid suddenly flew open.

Bright light stabbed into my eyes. I squinted, my vision swimming as rough hands grabbed my shirt and hauled me up and out like I weighed nothing. My bound legs dragged across the lip of the trunk, and I hit the ground hard on my knees. Concrete bit into my skin, and I groaned as pain flared in my shoulder, my head . . . everywhere.

Blinking against the glare, I saw I was in another small warehouse, not one of ours, judging by how filthy it was. Hanging bulbs swung overhead, and I jerked when I saw Cruz was tied to a metal chair maybe ten feet away, his arms bound behind him. His head was slumped forward, and blood matted his hair, the whole front of his shirt, and one of his thighs. He wasn’t moving.

For a moment, my chest locked, and then I saw his chest rise. Barely . . . but it still counted. He was at least alive.

I could work with that.

The warehouse door creaked open, and several men walked in, their boots scraping against the concrete. Declan wasn’t with them, and none of them looked familiar, which told me they weren’t any of O’Dalaigh’s inner circle. If I wasn’t so angry, I would have been offended. They’d left me with the fucking disposable muscle.

I lifted my head slowly, letting my mouth curve into something lazy and unimpressed. “Where’s Declan?” I asked. “I wouldn’t have thought the B-team would be sent to handle me. I figured the big dogs would want to do this part themselves.”

A few of them laughed, and one guy stepped forward, shaking his head like I’d just told the world’s funniest joke. “Oh, Declan’s busy,” he said. “He wanted to handle your girlfriend personally. But he said you could watch. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

It was all I could do to keep my face blank and not show them the full extent of the rage and terror I was feeling right now.

I watched as, from the corner of the warehouse, two men rolled out a television on a metal cart, setting it up as a sick presentation. The screen flickered once before lighting up.

And there she was.

Eden was tied to a chair in a room, and a circle of men surrounded her, watching her like wolves pacing around a wounded animal. Her hair had fallen forward over one side of her face. Her shoulders were pulled tight from the ropes binding her arms. Even through the grainy feed, I could see the fear she was trying so hard to hide.

I was starting to get dizzy as I stared at the screen. The image kept flickering from a bad signal, but every frame burned itself into the back of my skull. My stomach rolled, bile rising sharp and bitter. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to die. Right there on the filthy warehouse floor, with my hands still bound and my blood still drying on my shirt, I wanted the world to end so I wouldn’t have to keep looking at what I’d let happen to her.

I had failed her.

Completely. Catastrophically. In every way that mattered.

All the power I’d built. All the men who answered to me. The empire Cruz and I had spent years expanding, brick by bloody brick—and none of it mattered. None of it had been enough to keep her safe.

“See?” a man said lightly beside me. “Declan figured you would like this. This is top-quality entertainment right here.”

Before I could do or say anything . . . the lights went out. Every bulb in the warehouse blinked off at once, plunging the room into thick darkness. The television died with them, the screen snapping to black.

“What the hell⁠—”

The men shifted uneasily, their voices rising as they looked around. The only light left seeped weakly through two high windows near the ceiling, the glass so filthy it barely let anything through.

For a moment, the warehouse went completely still.

Then something smashed through one of the windows.

Glass shattered across the floor in a violent spray, and a small metal canister bounced against the concrete before rolling to a stop near the center of the room.

A second later, it began to hiss. White smoke exploded outward, spreading fast across the floor. Shouts erupted immediately.

“What the hell is that?” someone barked as the smoke began spreading across the floor.

“Shit—my eyes⁠—”

Men started coughing, the sound turning harsh and ragged as the thick cloud swallowed the center of the warehouse. The smoke moved fast, rolling outward in a dense wave that climbed toward the windows and swallowed the weak light.

Boots scraped across the concrete as the men stumbled blindly through it. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

Another cough broke out, louder this time, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

Then another.

A body hit the floor with a heavy thud somewhere in the haze.

Someone shouted in pain. Another shot echoed through the warehouse. Another body dropped, the impact rattling across the concrete.

I couldn’t see a damn thing.

The smoke was so thick it blurred everything into shifting gray shapes. My eyes watered, and I tried to angle my body away from it, my hands straining uselessly against the zip ties behind my back.

Another gunshot cracked through the air.

There was more shouting . . . and then silence.

The smoke drifted slowly, thinning just enough for shapes to begin forming again through the haze. I watched as a tall figure stepped out of the smoke and walked toward me, a dark gaiter pulled over the lower half of his face.

Adrenaline surged through me, and I threw my weight sideways, hitting the floor hard as I tried to get leverage against the bindings.

The figure stopped in front of me, and then he reached up and pulled the gaiter down, and I stared in absolute fucking shock as Lawson’s face appeared through the haze.

“Surprise,” he said smugly.

I blinked at him, unable to form any words.

Lawson jerked his chin toward the chaos behind him where several bodies now lay crumpled on the warehouse floor.

“You know,” he added casually, “I bet next time you’re totally going to ask me to come when you hit someone with your car.”

He seemed to be waiting for an answer because he didn’t make any moves to untie me. “Yes, I fucking am,” I spit out . . . so we could get the rescue part actually going.

My gaze flicked to the dark screen of the TV, my dread only growing as I thought about what was happening. “You can gloat later, Lawson,” I ground out. “Declan has Eden. I have to get to her.”

Lawson’s expression sobered instantly. His eyes widened, and he dropped to his knees beside me, pulling a knife from his boot. The blade flashed once before he sliced through the zip ties binding my wrists.

Across the warehouse, Cruz groaned. Both of us turned toward him immediately. Cruz’s head shifted slightly against his chest, but he didn’t wake. Blood still soaked through the front of his shirt, dark and spreading.

Lawson finished cutting the ties at my wrists and moved to my ankles.

“How did you find us?” I asked, my voice rough as blood rushed painfully back into my hands.

Lawson snorted. “I got an alert when the attack went down. My security systems lit up like a Christmas tree.” He cut through the last binding around my ankles and tossed the plastic aside. “The problem was, I couldn’t get enough firepower together to reach the warehouse in time. Maddox only just got to where they’d dumped Gage and left him for dead. This place is on the complete other side of town.”

My jaw tightened. “How the hell did you find us, then?”

Lawson glanced up at me and winked.

“Cruz had implants put in us years ago,” he said easily. “Little trackers as an insurance policy.”

Once again my jaw dropped.

He stood, stepping back as feeling slowly started creeping back into my legs.

“I fucking knew it,” I muttered, thinking how once again, Cruz’s stalking was something I was going to have to address at a later date.

At this rate, he was going to be able to stalk me forever.

Although, judging by the events of today . . . maybe that was okay.

We both sobered immediately as I tried to push myself upright. The moment I stood, my legs gave out. My numb feet refused to cooperate, and I went down hard again, barely catching myself before my shoulder slammed into the concrete.

Lawson grimaced. “Yeah . . . circulation’s gonna take a minute.”

He crouched beside me again, lowering his voice slightly.

“Quick question while you’re recovering,” he said. “Did you happen to do any stalkery things to Eden so we can find her?”

For a split second, my mind flashed through every obsessive precaution I’d ever taken.

The implant under her skin.

The backup chip in her shoulder.

The trackers sewn into every piece of clothing she owned.

The capsule I’d slipped into her vitamins three days ago.

A slow smile spread across my face as I looked up at him.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, pushing myself back onto unsteady feet, “I did.”

CHAPTER 40

EDEN

The rope bit into my wrists every time I moved.

Not that moving helped.

The chair was solid wood and heavy, its legs planted firmly on the concrete floor so that every small shift only pulled the rope tighter against my wrists. My shoulders ached from the way my arms were pulled behind me, the muscles trembling from being forced into a position they weren’t meant to stay in this long.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

I cringed every time I attempted my old school counselor’s tricks, but they seemed necessary under my current circumstances.

Fluorescent lights hung overhead, glaring down so brightly they washed the entire room in harsh white. There was nowhere for anything to hide.

The men were all standing around me in a loose circle, watching me. Their eyes felt like insects crawling over my skin. Every time one of them shifted their weight or chuckled quietly to the man next to them, my stomach twisted tighter.

A camera had been set up directly in front of me, its small red light glowing steadily. I kept my eyes away from it as much as I could, focusing instead on the cracked concrete floor beneath my bare feet, because looking at it made my chest tighten. If I looked too long, I would start thinking about what that light meant . . . and about who might be watching.

Be brave for him.

Zachary’s voice echoed in my head, the memory of his tense expression tightening my throat.

My pulse surged, but I forced my chin up anyway. If Jagger could see this—if he was watching—I wasn’t going to let him see me fall apart.

A door opened somewhere behind me, the slow creak cutting through the tense silence in the room. Unhurried footsteps crossed the concrete.

“Well now,” a voice said lazily, the words wrapped in a smooth Irish lilt that slid through the air like smoke. My stomach dropped at the familiar voice. It had been months, but there was no forgetting that night in the high roller room where I’d heard it. Not when that night had changed my whole life.

Jagger had said his name at one point. I could still picture the way his jaw had clenched when he’d looked at him. What had he called him? The memory pushed through the panic a second later.

Declan.

I turned my head just as he stepped around the chair and came into view.

Declan was smiling as he stopped in front of me, a knife flashing between his fingers as he flipped it idly in his hand. The blade caught the light every time it turned, glinting silver.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “I had a feeling about you the first night I saw you.” The knife spun again. “You remember that night?”

My throat tightened, but I didn’t answer, and his smile widened.

“Oh, I remember it perfectly.” His gaze slid slowly over my face. “Pretty little cocktail waitress wandering around a roomful of men who eat people like you for breakfast.”

The knife flipped once more before he caught it by the handle, and Declan chuckled softly. “I knew it right then,” he said. “Knew the second Jagger Thatcher looked at you that he was about to ruin your life.”

He leaned closer, the tip of the knife lifting until it hovered just beneath my chin. “And the funniest part?”

His eyes gleamed.

“All of this happened . . .”

He gestured around the room, at the men watching, at the camera recording every second.

“And you didn’t even know.”

The knife traced lightly along the edge of my jaw.

“You had absolutely no idea,” he said softly, “that you were climbing into bed with the Las Vegas mafia.”

He straightened again, flipping the knife back into the air.

If he was going for shock, though . . . it didn’t work. At this point, after being dragged out of Jagger’s penthouse and tied to a chair while men circled me like this, it would have been stranger if it wasn’t something like that.

Still, a small part of me thought about the version of myself who had been sitting on that couch only a few hours earlier, half watching television while waiting for my shift to start. That girl might have been stunned to hear someone say it out loud.

But even then . . . maybe not.

Because when I really thought about it, I’d always known there was something more to Jagger.

I hadn’t known exactly what. I just knew there was . . . more.

He had driven a knife straight through a poker table the first night I met him just because someone touched me. Men twice his size watched him with the wary attention people gave someone dangerous. Conversations changed when he entered a room. People stepped out of his way without even realizing they were doing it.

And I had seen the way his eyes went cold sometimes when he was upset with someone.

A part of me had always understood that loving Jagger Thatcher meant stepping into a different kind of darkness than the one I’d grown up in. I had simply chosen not to look too closely.

Because I loved him. Because being with him felt bigger and brighter and more alive than anything I’d ever known.

People liked to talk about cautionary tales when it came to love—stories about the girl who ignored the warning signs, who followed the wrong man too far, who paid the price for it in the end.

Maybe that was me.

Maybe someday someone would point to a story like mine and say This is why you don’t fall for men like him.

But even tied to a chair in a roomful of his enemies, staring down the man who wanted to destroy him . . .

I still didn’t regret loving Jagger.

Even if I died today, it would still be better than the years I spent slowly dying beside Ryan.

“Don’t worry, Eden,” Declan said soothingly as if he was comforting a frightened child. “Jagger’s watching all of this from where we have him.” The blade spun once more before he caught it with a snap of his fingers. “And he’s going to die knowing exactly what I’m about to do to you.”

My stomach lurched, but I held steady. I wouldn’t let him see me break. Not yet. Not ever, if I could help it. Breath in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Why hadn’t those motherfucking counselors given me something better to try?

Declan stepped closer, and then he reached out and hooked the tip of the blade under the collar of my blouse. The fabric was a smooth polyester blend, the standard issue they used for casino uniforms, stretchy and lightweight. Under the knife, it suddenly felt paper-thin.

He didn’t rush. He dragged the knife down slowly, starting at the top button and slicing through each one in turn. The threads popped softly, one after another. The blouse split straight down the front, the collar and buttons parting to reveal the simple white bra underneath. The air hit my skin in a sudden rush, raising goose bumps across my chest and stomach. The ruined shirt hung open like a broken wing, framing the black skirt that still clung to my hips.

The men reacted instantly.

A low whistle came from the back. Another muttered something crude in a thick Irish accent. One of the men from the elevator licked his lips again, his eyes dark and hungry. The one by the camera adjusted the lens slightly, zooming in as if this were the money shot.

I felt the shake start in my legs, then climb up my spine. My teeth chattered for half a second before I clamped them together. No. They didn’t get to see that. They didn’t get to see me crumble.

I stared straight ahead—at the blinking red light on the camera—and pictured Jagger’s face instead. The way he looked at me, like I was the only thing in his world that made sense. The way he’d whispered I love you against my skin like it was a vow. I clung to that image with everything I had inside me.

Declan tilted his head, studying me as he decided where to start.

“Brave little thing,” he murmured. “I’ll give you that. Most girls would be sobbing by now. Begging. But you . . .” He traced the flat of the blade along my collarbone—cold metal kissing skin, but not yet cutting it. “You’re still fighting. It’s almost sweet.”

He leaned in until his breath brushed my ear. “Jagger’s going to love watching me take that fight away from you. Piece by piece.”

My pulse roared in my ears, and the shaking got worse, but I still refused to look away from the camera. If he was watching—if he could still see me—I wanted him to see I wasn’t broken.

Declan stepped away, the knife still in his hand, and nodded to one of the men. “Turn up the volume,” he said. “I want him to hear every sound she makes for this next part.”

The red light on the camera blinked faster, almost eager.

Declan turned back to me with a cruel smile. The blade hovered near my face for a moment before he pressed it into my cheek, dragging it slowly across my skin without breaking it. “Let’s see how brave you are,” he murmured, “when you’re getting fucked by this blade.”

My stomach dropped as he reached down and shoved my skirt up so that the fabric bunched around my hips, exposing the tops of my thighs and the black lace of my underwear.

I jerked hard against the bindings. The zip ties dug deeper, and pain lanced through my wrists, but I didn’t care. “Get your fucking hands off me,” I spat, my voice shaking with rage more than fear.

He laughed and slowly trailed the flat of the knife up the inside of my thigh. I tried to close my legs, but the ropes held them apart. I thrashed, hips twisting, cursing him with every breath. “Fuck you,” I snarled. “You’re going to die screaming, you piece of shit.”

The knife kept moving higher, until the tip grazed the edge of my underwear, and I froze, every nerve screaming.

Gunfire suddenly erupted outside.

Sharp cracks echoed through the walls, followed by shouts. Something heavy crashed against the door.

Declan’s head snapped up. For one split second, alarm flashed across his face, but he quickly shook it off and grinned. He leaned in close again, the tip of his knife still resting right at the seam of my underwear. “I guess Jagger wanted to see me kill you up close,” he whispered, his voice thick with glee. “How thoughtful.”

A rush of adrenaline hit me as the gunfire grew louder. It now sounded like the automatic weapons I’d seen in movies, with overlapping bursts and men shouting in confusion and pain.

Declan straightened slowly as his men rushed forward.

The door exploded inward with a deafening crash, and smoke began pouring in, thick and white. A canister clattered across the floor and burst with a hiss, and the room filled instantly with choking clouds that burned my eyes and throat.

Shouts turned to coughs, and coughs turned to panicked curses. Declan’s men were swinging their rifles wildly through the haze. They couldn’t see anything by the door, and neither could I.

Gunfire cracked through the smoke.

One of the men dropped instantly, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Another burst followed, and a second body fell somewhere to my left. Declan reacted instantly, fisting my hair and dragging the chair backward as he stepped behind me, hauling me with him so my body blocked his. The movement nearly tipped the chair, the legs screeching across the concrete before he steadied it.

The gunfire slowed as bodies kept falling, their guns clattering uselessly to the floor. The smoke was everywhere now, thick and blinding, but whoever was out there moved through it like they could see perfectly. Every muzzle flash lit up the haze for a split second—red dots dancing, men dropping before they could scream.

One of Declan’s men lunged toward me, and a single shot cracked from the smoke. The man jerked, his head snapping sideways, and collapsed across my lap. Warm blood soaked through my skirt, and I bit back a scream.

Declan’s grip tightened. “Stay still,” he hissed as he released my hair and pushed the body off me in disgust. “They won’t shoot through you.”

The last of his men fell, and then there was silence . . . thick, ringing silence broken only by the low hiss of the dying smoke grenade and my own ragged breathing.

A figure stepped out of the thinning smoke, and I knew immediately it was Jagger. He had on black tactical gear, and his face was streaked with soot and blood that I was hoping wasn’t his. Maddox and Lawson flanked him, rifles up, sweeping the room. Four others fanned out behind them, securing corners.

Declan grabbed my throat, and pressed a knife against my skin until a thin line of blood trickled down my neck. “Stay back,” he called, “or I open her up right here.”

Jagger stopped a few feet away, and his eyes met mine for half a second—fierce and burning and promising—and then shifted to Declan. “Let her go,” he said quietly.

Declan laughed again. “That’s not happening, Thatcher.”

Jagger didn’t answer with words; he simply raised his rifle in one smooth motion. Declan fired first, though, a quick, desperate shot from the hip, and the crack of the gunshot echoed through the room as the round slammed into Jagger’s chest.

I finally screamed.

For one horrifying second I thought he was going to collapse right there in front of me. The impact knocked him back a step, and a rough grunt left his mouth . . . but he didn’t fall. He barely even slowed.

Through the haze of smoke I saw the hard outline beneath his shirt, and my mind scrambled to catch up. A vest. He had to be wearing a bulletproof vest.

Before Declan could fire again, Jagger squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked once, and Declan’s gun flew from his hand and skidded across the floor. Declan hissed in pain but still kept the knife pressed to my throat with his other hand.

Jagger crossed the distance in two strides and grabbed Declan by the collar. One hard yank pulled him off me. Maddox was there instantly, crouching beside me as he sliced through the zip ties at my wrists and ankles.

The moment the last one snapped free, my arms dropped uselessly to my sides. Pins and needles exploded through my hands as blood rushed back into them, and when I tried to stand, my legs buckled beneath me.

Maddox swore under his breath and caught me before I could hit the floor. Then he scooped me up in one easy motion, one arm braced behind my back and the other under my knees as he pulled me against his chest.

“Easy,” he muttered.

My limbs felt like they didn’t belong to me yet, trembling uncontrollably as he carried me away from the chair while the rest of the team secured the room.

I watched over Maddox’s shoulder as Jagger slammed Declan against the wall hard enough that the impact echoed in my ears. The back of Declan’s head struck the concrete with a sickening crack. Declan tried to swing at him with his good hand, but Jagger caught the motion easily, twisting his wrist until the bone snapped. Declan screamed.

Jagger pulled a black, serrated knife from his belt with his other hand, and he immediately drove it forward.

The first strike punched through Declan’s throat, and arterial spray jetted out in a bright red arc that painted Jagger’s face and chest. Blood flecked his cheeks, clung to his eyelashes, and dripped from his jaw . . . and he didn’t even pause. The second strike went into Declan’s chest, the sternum cracking under the serrated edge as blood bloomed across Declan’s shirt and soaked Jagger’s sleeves in seconds. The third strike opened Declan’s stomach. The knife sank to the hilt, and Jagger twisted it once before yanking it free in a gush of red that splattered across him.

Each thrust was brutal until Declan’s screams dissolved into wet gurgles, then bubbling gasps, and then silence. But Jagger didn’t stop. He kept stabbing long after Declan’s legs gave out and his weight hung uselessly against the wall.

When Jagger finally stepped back, Declan’s ruined body collapsed to the floor in a heap.

The knife was still dripping in Jagger’s hand as he stared down at the corpse, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. Then he turned and looked at me.

Our eyes met across the smoke-hazed room.

For one flickering moment, something raw and unguarded flashed in his gaze—wariness, almost fear. Like he was terrified of what he’d find when he finally reached me. Like he thought I might flinch away from him now, covered in blood and violence, the monster he’d always kept hidden finally laid bare.

Then that wariness hardened.

His jaw locked, and his eyes darkened as the softness vanished like it had never existed.

He stalked forward with long, purposeful strides that ate up the distance between us. Maddox still had one arm around my waist, steadying me, but Jagger didn’t slow. He reached us in three steps, grabbed my upper arms, and ripped me out of Maddox’s hold with enough force that I stumbled forward into his chest.

His mouth crashed down on mine, hard and desperate. It tasted of blood and smoke and something fiercer—something that felt like possession and relief and terror all at once.

“You’re not fucking leaving me,” he growled against my lips in a shredded voice. “You hear me? Never.”

I should have pushed him away. I should have recoiled from the blood on his skin, the metallic tang in his kiss, and the way his hands shook even as they gripped me like I might vanish if he let go.

But I didn’t . . . I kissed him back.

My fingers curled into his blood-soaked shirt, fisting the fabric so hard my knuckles ached. My body pressed closer without conscious thought, molding to the hard planes of his chest, and the frantic beat of his heart. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t.

Because even now—even covered in death, even shaking with rage and fear—he was still Jagger.

Still mine.

And somehow, in the middle of all this horror, I didn’t want to leave him.

Not even a little.

I kissed him deeper, hungrier, like I could pour everything I felt into his mouth instead of saying it out loud. His hands slid up my back, one tangling in my hair, the other pressing between my shoulder blades and holding me so tight I could barely breathe.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath came in strangled bursts. “I love you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I love you so fucking much.”

I swallowed hard, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I love you, too,” I breathed. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

He exhaled like the words had punched the air out of him, and then he kissed me again, slower this time, softer, trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.

And in that moment, with blood still wet on his skin and the smell of smoke and death thick around us—I understood something with terrifying clarity.

I was never leaving him.

Not now. Not later. Not ever.

Not even if loving him ruined me.

Despite who he was, despite everything, I loved him.

I guess I’d have to settle with being the cautionary tale I’d always feared after all.

CHAPTER 41

JAGGER

If she thought we were going to go somewhere and have a sit-down chat about everything . . . she had another thing coming.

There was only one thought in my head as we made our way out of the building—we were getting married.

Today. Right now. Exactly as we were.

The warm night air hit my face as we stepped outside, joining the heat still burning through my veins. Gravel crunched under our boots as we crossed the lot toward the line of black SUVs waiting under the security lights.

I didn’t slow down.

Eden was still in my arms. Her body felt small against mine, light in a way that made something vicious twist inside my chest. Her blouse hung in torn pieces around her shoulders, the fabric split down the front where it had been cut it open. Every time I looked at it, my vision darkened.

Mine.

Someone had tried to take what was mine.

My arms tightened around her without thinking.

She hadn’t said a word since she’d told me she loved me, and her fingers were still curled weakly in the front of my shirt, gripping the blood-soaked fabric. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, and every once in a while, I could feel a tremor pass through her body.

Too close.

Everything had been too fucking close.

I opened the back door of the nearest SUV and climbed inside, pulling her with me. The moment I sat down, I dragged her fully into my lap, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other came up to cradle the back of her head against my shoulder.

Maddox slid behind the wheel, and Lawson climbed into the passenger seat beside him. For a few seconds, the only sound in the SUV was the engine rumbling to life.

I looked down at Eden. Her eyes were open but distant, like she was still half stuck in that room. “We’re getting married,” I announced.

The words dropped into the silence like a bomb. Maddox’s head snapped toward the rearview mirror, and Lawson slowly turned around in his seat.

“You’re what?” Maddox said flatly.

“We’re getting married.”

Maddox stared at me, waiting for the punch line. “You just stabbed a man to death like a hundred times,” he said. “And before that, you nearly died.”

“Yes.”

“And your next logical thought,” Lawson added carefully, “is marriage?”

“Yes.”

I looked down at Eden again. “Eden,” I said quietly. Her gaze lifted to mine. “We’re getting married tonight.”

She blinked up at me.

“You don’t get a vote,” I added calmly. “I’m tying you to me in every possible way. Legally. Permanently. I’m dragging you there whether you like it or not.”

Maddox made a strangled sound, and Lawson rubbed a hand over his face. Eden still hadn’t said anything; she just stared at me as if her brain hadn’t caught up with the conversation.

Maddox started the SUV rolling toward the road. “Where exactly am I driving during this…impromptu kidnapping wedding?” he asked dryly.

“The Little Vegas Chapel.”

Maddox slammed on the brakes, and we all pitched forward. “You are not serious.”

“Drive.”

He stared at me in the mirror for another second before scoffing and accelerating onto the highway.

Lawson twisted around and held out a packet of wipes. “You could at least clean the blood off your face,” he said dryly. “And I’d take off some of that bloody tactical gear or you’ll have Elvis fainting at the sight of you before he can officiate.”

I took the packet and dragged one of the wipes across my cheek without looking away from Eden. She was still sitting stiffly in my lap, her hands resting against my chest. After a moment, I grabbed another wipe and brushed it gently across her face, too, wiping the damp tracks from her cheeks and beneath her eyes. She didn’t resist or even seem to notice what I was doing—she simply sat there and let me, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, distant and unfocused.

I tightened my arms around her and buried my face against her neck. She smelled like smoke and fear and something softer underneath that made my chest loosen just enough to breathe again. “Faster,” I snarled at Maddox.

He muttered under his breath about at least having a “fucking proper suit on” but pressed the accelerator down harder.

Lawson had already pulled his laptop onto his knees. “You know,” he said irritably while typing, “after everything I’ve done tonight, I think I deserve a considerable amount of appreciation.”

His fingers flew across the keyboard.

“I’ll shut the cameras off at the chapel,” he continued. “And since you’ll probably want them watching for this extremely stable decision, I’ll get Gage and Cruz on FaceTime from the hospital.”

He paused, then sighed. “Which, incidentally,” he added, “I also arranged—if anyone wants to thank me for saving everyone’s lives.”

Maddox snorted. “I helped,” he mused.

Lawson kept typing. “Yeah, but they already bring you along for things. I’m the one fighting for respect. Honestly,” he muttered, “the things I do for you people.”

Eden finally came to in the parking lot of the chapel.

She sat straight up in my lap like someone had yanked her awake with a defibrillator. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, and she stared at me as if she was seeing me for the first time. “You were serious,” she gasped.

I met her gaze. “Deadly.”

Maddox twisted in the driver’s seat, looking back at us. Lawson did the same from the passenger side. Maddox cleared his throat. “We’ll just . . . be waiting outside,” he said lightly.

Lawson nodded once awkwardly. “Yeah. Take your time. Or don’t. Whatever.” They both climbed out fast, and the doors slammed behind them.

She continued to stare at me incredulously. “I can’t marry you,” she said finally as she scooted off my lap and into the seat next to me.

I frowned as though she’d said something slightly inconvenient, not completely ridiculous. “Why not?”

“‘Why not’?” she repeated incredulously. “Jagger⁠—”

I raised one brow and leaned in closer. “You said you still love me. You already promised you’re not leaving me. This is just the follow-up.”

Her lips parted, then pressed shut, then parted again as she struggled to decide which words to let out first. “That’s not—” She dragged both hands through her hair. “We haven’t even discussed that you’re in the mafia,” she whispered.

I sighed. “Rule number one of the group, Eden . . . you don’t say mafia.”

Before she could argue, I reached into the center console, pulled out the cuffs we kept in these vehicles, and snapped one bracelet around her left wrist. The other went around my right.

Click. Locked.

Slowly, very slowly, she lifted her hand, staring at the metal linking us together. Her expression was pure disbelief. “You just handcuffed me again.”

I grinned. “I’ve found in my line of work that it’s efficient for problem-solving.”

“You—” She gestured helplessly at the cuff, like the correct words might appear if she stared at it long enough. “You cannot just handcuff someone and drag them into a chapel!”

“Sure I can,” I said pleasantly. “Watch.”

Her jaw dropped. “Jagger.”

“Hmm?”

“This is kidnapping.”

“Technically,” I said thoughtfully, opening my door, “it’s a romantic gesture. Shall we go?”

She made a strangled noise. “You are insane.”

“Probably.”

Her eyes were doing a rapid blinking thing. She was definitely still in shock. “I’ve clearly lost my mind,” she said flatly. “I need to see a therapist.”

I tilted my head. “Why?”

“Because I’m actually considering marrying you.”

“You can go after we’re married,” I told her, my grin widening as I reached for the door handle, then paused. Eden was halfway across the seat, clearly expecting me to drag her out with the cuff, but her blouse was still hanging open from earlier, and the lace of her bra was completely visible.

I sighed.

“What?” she asked warily.

“Hold still.”

Before she could argue, I reached across her and pulled the edges of her blouse together.

Her eyes widened immediately. “Jagger⁠—”

“Relax,” I said calmly.

I quickly threaded the loose ties through the buttons that had come undone, tugging the fabric closed so it covered her properly. My knuckles brushed her ribs as I worked, and she went very still.

“There,” I said, smoothing the front once to make sure nothing was gaping. “Now we can go.”

I opened my door and stepped out. Before she could protest, I slid one arm under her knees and lifted her out of the seat. She let out a small yelp as her free arm flew around my neck.

“Jagger!”

“You can’t walk on the gravel barefoot,” I told her.

The cuff clinked between us as I adjusted her against my chest.

“Let’s go, Future Mrs. Thatcher,” I said as I walked toward the chapel where the doors were already open and waiting.

Lawson had done his job well; there was no one inside but him and Maddox.

And . . . fucking hell. I stopped in the doorway. The entire place looked like a flamingo had exploded.

Pink carpet. Pink velvet pews. Pink ribbons tied around the backs of chairs. Pink flowers everywhere—fake ones, obviously—arranged in towering bouquets.

Even the arch at the front was wrapped in pink tulle that puffed out in dramatic clouds . . . a sort of cotton-candy avalanche.

There were heart-shaped balloons floating near the ceiling. Pink ones, of course, and tiny plastic cupids were stuck to the walls like decorative surveillance cameras, each one aiming a glittery arrow at the aisle.

I slowly turned my head toward Lawson. He spread his hands innocently. “What?” he said. “The couple before you had ordered the deluxe package, so I told them just to keep it up.”

Eden lifted her head from my shoulder and took one look around and just shook her head. Oh good, we’d just gotten to the acceptance part of the evening.

An Elvis impersonator was waiting at the end of the short aisle—white jumpsuit, pompadour, sideburns, the whole package. He stared for a moment, taking in the blood still splattered across me, the cuffs linking our wrists, Eden’s torn clothes, her wild hair . . . and then he simply nodded like this was nothing new.

Which, even in Vegas, I knew was not the truth. I’m sure Lawson had blackmailed him to within an inch of his life to pull this off.

“Evening, folks,” he said in that practiced drawl. “Ready to make it official?”

I looked down at Eden. She stared back at me, her eyes still dazed, but she didn’t pull away or try to object again. She just nodded once, shakily, but certain.

I walked us forward. “Let’s do this.”

CHAPTER 42

JAGGER

The ceremony lasted maybe three minutes. Four if you counted the part where Elvis cleared his throat dramatically and made us repeat vows that were clearly written on the back of a cocktail napkin.

But somewhere in the middle of it—Eden’s hand had tightened around mine. Her eyes were on me the whole time, like she couldn’t quite look away. Like she was still trying to figure out how she’d ended up here.

Standing in a pink chapel.

Handcuffed to a man covered in blood.

Marrying him.

“Elvis has performed a lot of ceremonies in this chapel,” the man said solemnly. “But tonight we celebrate a love that clearly cannot be stopped.”

Maddox made a quiet choking noise behind us, which I ignored, of course.

Elvis looked at Eden. “Do you take this man,” he said, gesturing vaguely at me, “to love, honor, and cherish . . . until death do you part?”

Eden blinked at him. Then she looked at me. For a second her face crumpled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. My chest tightened. I had no idea if she was crying because she was happy . . . or because she couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Either way, I was confident I could work with it.

“Yes,” she finally whispered.

Elvis nodded approvingly, definitely thinking he’d cleared a big hurdle. I exchanged a look with him that said You and me both, bud.

“And do you—” he began.

“Yes,” I said immediately.

He blinked. “Well . . . all right, then.”

Elvis lifted his hands. “By the power vested in me by the great state of Nevada and the spirit of rock and roll”—he grinned—“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

I didn’t wait for anything else. I pulled Eden against me and kissed her. Her fingers clutched my shirt as I did it, and when her mouth opened against mine, something inside my chest finally unclenched. Like a pressure valve releasing. For the first time all night—I felt calmer.

Maybe it was the fact that she’d chosen me. Maybe it was the fact that even after finding out about the Syndicate, she was still here. Or maybe it was just the simple reality that she was my wife now. She might not understand everything about what I did. She certainly didn’t know about Ryan yet or any of the other things I’d done to get us here.

But somehow—standing here with her in my arms—that made the whole situation feel a lot more manageable.

Behind us, Elvis clapped enthusiastically. He reached into a plastic bucket and tossed something into the air. Birdseed rained down over us like festive gravel. “Congratulations!” he said proudly.

Eden burst out laughing into my shoulder.

I scooped her back into my arms and carried her down the aisle while birdseed fell off my jacket onto the pink carpet.

“Best wedding ever,” Maddox muttered.

Lawson nodded solemnly. “Very tasteful. I’m an excellent wedding planner.”

“You are,” I told him over my shoulder as I carried Eden back to the car. I slid us into the back seat while Maddox and Lawson climbed into the front.

Maddox started the engine as I pulled out my phone and hit Jace’s number. He answered on the second ring.

“Please tell me you’re calling because you murdered someone,” Jace said cheerfully. “I’m bored because Riley decided she needed sleep.”

“I got married,” I said.

There was silence for a second. Then, “You what?”

“I got married.”

“To Eden?” he demanded.

I angled the phone so he could see that Eden was leaning against me in the back seat. Her hair was wild. We were both covered in blood, and birdseed was still stuck in my collar.

Jace stared for a second . . . then he started laughing. “Fucking hell,” he said. “The life of crime is really not agreeing with you two.”

Eden laughed beside me. “Hi, Jace.”

“Sweet merciful fuck,” he said delightedly. “She sounds alive. That’s a promising start. Congratulations,” he added. “I assume there were several felonies involved.”

“Probably,” I said.

“Perfect,” Jace replied.

I shook my head, still smiling. “We’ll talk later.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Go enjoy your . . . extremely concerning honeymoon.”

I hung up, and Eden leaned her head against my shoulder as the car pulled away from the chapel.

Maddox caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “So,” he said, “since Gage and Cruz didn’t pick up, are we telling them you just eloped in blood-soaked clothes in a Pepto-Bismol-colored Elvis chapel, or should we let them find out when they see the wedding photos Lawson’s definitely already leaking?”

Lawson snorted from the passenger seat. “I’ve already sent the group chat a blurry screenshot. Caption says, ‘Jagger finally made an honest woman out of her.’”

Eden let out a tired laugh against my neck.

I sighed. “You two are assholes.”

“Yeah,” Maddox said cheerfully. “But we saved your life, so you have to accept it.”

The cuff between our wrists shifted softly as the car moved, and I turned it once with my thumb, feeling the solid weight of the lock still holding it closed. I glanced down at Eden.

“Can we unlock this?” she murmured sleepily.

I thought about it for a moment, then tightened my fingers around hers. “Not yet.”

She smiled against my shoulder, and neither of us let go.

Maddox glanced back again in the mirror a couple of minutes later. “You really think this is over?” he asked quietly.

I looked down at Eden, who was now sleeping, a temporary ill-fitting ring glinting on her finger that Lawson had gotten from who knows where.

“No,” I said as I kissed her temple. “But tonight, it is.”

The SUV merged onto the highway. Around us, Vegas glittered, beautiful and ruthless. And somewhere out there, the Irish were already planning their next move.

Let them come. I had a wife now.

And I’d burn the whole city down before I let anyone touch her again.

EPILOGUE 1

EDEN

Imoaned around his cock, the sound muffled and desperate as my tongue swirled over the thick head, tasting salt and heat and him. The vibration pulled a low, erotic groan from Jagger’s throat, and his hips jerked against my face.

We’d barely made it through the front door of our new place.

It had been a week since the Elvis chapel. A week since I’d said “I do” in a torn blouse and skirt while he stood there in a bloody shirt with cuffs linking our wrists in a vow no one could break. It had been a week of hospital visits to Gage and Cruz and quiet nights in hotel suites while we began the process of moving into a new penthouse where I didn’t have to remember the sight of Zachary’s body or being hunted through the halls.

Our new place smelled of fresh paint and new beginnings, and we hadn’t yet managed to unpack a single box.

Instead, Jagger had backed me against the nearest wall the second the elevator doors slid shut, kissing me until my knees nearly gave out beneath me. Then he lifted me and carried me to the center of the empty living room, where the late-afternoon sun spilled light across the hardwood floors, and laid me down right there.

Jagger had stripped me slowly, lifting my T-shirt over my head inch by inch while his hands lingered over my skin before finally sliding my shorts down my hips. Then he shifted me beneath him until our bodies were aligned in perfect opposition, his thighs bracketing my head while his cock rested heavy and thick against my lips.

I opened for him instantly, taking him deep. My cheeks hollowed as I sucked and licked, greedy for him.

He answered by spreading my thighs wide and burying his face between them.

His tongue flicked over my clit in slow, perfect circles, teasing at first, then firmer, faster, matching the rhythm I set with my mouth. Every time I took him deeper, he rewarded me with a long, flat drag of his tongue down my folds, ending with a hard suck on the swollen bud that made my hips jerk off his face.

I moaned again and pulled back so it was just his head in my mouth, and I could torture him by suckling and tonguing the slit. His hips flexed, and he thrust back into my mouth, the piercing on his cock catching the back of my throat in a way that made my eyes water and my core clench hard.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed against me in a muffled voice. “That’s so good.”

I swirled my tongue and tried to relax my throat so I could take him deeper while his fingers dug into my thighs, holding me open so he could lick and suck and tease until my legs shook violently around his head.

He slid two fingers inside me while his tongue stayed relentless on my clit. I was bucking against his mouth, and he groaned in approval before biting down on it gently. The combination of his fingers and his teeth shattered me. My thighs clamped around his head on instinct as I came, and I cried out around his cock. Jagger cursed as I grabbed his ass and shoved more of his cock down my throat.

“Fuck,” he growled as he pulled out and flipped us around so that I was now on top, straddling his chest with his cock digging into my stomach.

“Welcome home, wife,” he rasped.

I shifted forward until the blunt head of him nudged my entrance, slick and ready from his mouth. Rising up, I sank down slowly on his length, inch by thick inch, feeling every ridge, every vein, and the way he stretched me open until I was shaking.

Jagger’s hands clamped onto my hips, and his fingers dug into my flesh as he watched himself disappear inside me like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

I rolled my hips once, grinding down until he bottomed out. A low curse slipped from his throat as I lifted up halfway, then sank back down, setting a rhythm that was mine to control. Up. Down. Slow circles when I was seated deep, forward tilts that dragged him against that perfect spot until sparks lit behind my eyelids.

His abs flexed under my palms with every rise and fall. Sweat beaded along his collarbones and trickled down the valley between his pecs. I leaned forward, changing the angle, letting him hit deeper while I rocked faster. The new position rubbed my clit against his pelvis on every downstroke, a rough friction that made my breath catch and my pace stutter.

“Fuck—Eden—” His hands slid up my sides to cup my breasts, and his fingers rolled and tugged my sensitive nipples. My inner muscles clenched hard around him in response.

I rode him harder then, faster, all my need boiling over. My thighs burned, and my breath came in short gasps, but I didn’t slow. The pleasure built in tight, twisting coils low in my belly, spreading outward until my fingertips tingled and my scalp prickled.

Jagger thrust up to meet me, short, powerful snaps that drove him deeper and that made my whole body jolt. One hand slid between us, and his thumb found my clit and rubbed in hard circles that matched the frantic pace I’d set.

The orgasm built differently this time, not a crash but a slow, inevitable climb. Like pressure mounting behind a dam. My rhythm faltered, my hips grinding down erratically as the tension wound tighter and tighter.

“Jagger—”

“Come,” he demanded as he pressed down harder on my clit. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

I felt another surge of pleasure running through me, and I exploded. My back arched helplessly, my breasts lifting toward the ceiling as my nipples tightened to painful points in the cool air.

His pace faltered as he thrust up, shooting cum into my clenching core. Our combined fluids dripped out of me, coating his hips and the floor under us. I fell forward against his chest, sighing at how good I felt.

“I love you,” he murmured as he pressed soft, delicious kisses against my skin.

“I love you, too,” I whispered, my body trembling in the fading aftershocks. He shifted, and I thought he was about to lift me off him, but instead he reached out blindly toward the side of us.

I heard fabric rustle, and Jagger dragged a folded blanket off a nearby chair and shook it out with one hand before draping it over us. The soft weight settled across my bare skin, warm and protective against the cool air coming from the vents.

“I just want to stay right here for a little while,” he whispered as he tugged the blanket higher around us and pulled me closer against his chest, his arm wrapping around my back like he had no intention of letting me go anytime soon.

That sounded good to me.

Jagger

I woke to the sound of the elevator’s ding cutting through the quiet apartment.

Every instinct in my body snapped awake, and Eden jerked at the same time, her fingers tightening on my shoulders as both of us lifted our heads like startled animals.

The blanket was half tangled around us, and my dick was still very much inside her.

I quickly rolled us over and pulled out, jumping off the ground and covering her with a blanket as I reached for my gun . . . right as Cruz walked into our living room.

For a second he just stood there, looking more like himself despite the healing cut slicing across his forehead and the slight limp still dragging in his step from getting shot. He stopped dead, and his eyes slowly traveled over the scene and me . . . and the fact that my dick was just hanging out.

Evidently he didn’t have Maddox’s same ability to ignore the elephant in the room, so to speak, because he was staring.

I waved a hand at him to direct his attention elsewhere.

Cruz’s eyebrows lifted so high they were basically attempting escape. “Well,” he said after a second. “This wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but I can honestly say I’m not mad about it.”

Eden made a strangled noise and pulled the blanket up over her face in embarrassment.

I wasn’t embarrassed at all, though . . . I was very much something else. I bared my teeth at him. “That’s it,” I snarled. “How the fuck are you stalking me now?”

Because I had very deliberately not given him the code to our new place.

Cruz’s grin spread slowly across his face. “Oh, you’re wondering about how I got up here,” he said.

“Yes,” I said darkly. “With the code I didn’t give you.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I figured it out.”

That told me absolutely nothing, but he didn’t seem to care as he strolled down the hall toward our new kitchen.

“I’m getting this tracker out of me soon,” I yelled after him.

He just laughed. “Good luck with that. I’ll just give you another one,” he said over his shoulder.

Eden started laughing under the blanket as I stared after him. I dragged a hand down my face. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Nice place, by the way,” Cruz called from out of sight.

Eden lost it completely, snorting and wheezing, the blanket shaking like it was possessed.

I stared at the ceiling for a long second, and then I let out a long--suffering sigh . . . and laughed, too.

Because what the fuck else was I supposed to do?

EPILOGUE 2

CRUZ

Our family’s estate looked exactly the same as it always did.

Massive iron gates. Perfect hedges trimmed with surgical precision. A fountain in the circular drive that probably cost more than most people’s houses. My mother believed subtlety was for poor people.

I handed my keys to her butler, Clarence, and walked inside.

Lunch with my mother happened once a month. She strong-armed me into it by saying it was the price of maintaining the illusion that we were a normal family, which, of course, we were not.

The dining room smelled like lemon polish and quiet judgment. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching on crystal glasses and polished silver.

My mother sat at the head of the table like a queen waiting for her court. “Cruz,” she said coolly as I walked in, eyeing my latest baby blue suit distastefully.

“Mother.” I dropped into the chair across from her and immediately reached for the wine.

“It’s noon.”

I took a long drink. “Then I’m getting an early start.”

Her lips pursed, making her resemble a shriveled raisin. Fucking hell, I hated that expression.

Lunch had barely started before she launched into her favorite topic. The staff.

“I told her the napkins are folded incorrectly,” she was saying now, stabbing delicately at her salad as if the arugula was her worst enemy. “But apparently that instruction was too complex.”

“Tragic.”

She ignored me.

“The new girl clearly has no training. The linen closet is chaos. Chaos, Cruz.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Thoughts and prayers,” I drawled sarcastically.

She sighed heavily. “I don’t understand why people have no pride in their work anymore.”

I took another drink of wine and stared out the window. This was why I usually brought Jagger. He treated these lunches like a sport. He’d ask questions just to watch her spiral.

Once, he’d convinced her that the gardener was secretly sabotaging the rose bushes because he was working for the Russians.

I’d laughed for three straight days.

Unfortunately, Jagger was currently married and spending as much time as possible with his new wife.

Which meant I had to suffer through this alone.

She glanced at my leg as I shifted in my chair. “You were limping when you walked in.”

“I was shot, if you recall.”

She frowned slightly. “How careless.”

I stared at her. “Next time I’ll try to schedule it more conveniently.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Well, I assume it was something ridiculous that Jagger dragged you into.”

“It wasn’t.”

She ignored me. “I never understood why you associate with that boy. His family has absolutely no breeding.”

“Funny,” I said lazily. “He says the same thing about you.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I finished the last of my wine and pushed my chair back. Today was a good day for takeout.

“Well,” I said, standing, “this has been delightful.”

“You’re leaving?” she gasped. “We’ve just barely started our appetizer.”

“I have to get back to my life of crime.”

She sniffed as if that life didn’t pay for her mansion.

I grabbed my jacket, and she picked up her phone, probably to text all her friends about what a terrible son I was.

“Oh,” she said suddenly.

I paused halfway to the door. “What?”

She peered down at the phone. “The Hollis girl is getting married tomorrow. Her mother just posted it.”

Everything in my body went still. Slowly, I turned back around.

“What did you say?”

She looked up, annoyed. “The Hollis girl,” she repeated. “Rowan Hollis.”

My chair scraped loudly as I sat back down. My pulse had kicked into a sudden, violent rhythm.

Rowan Hollis.

My mother continued reading as if she hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of the room.

“Lovely girl,” she said. “Her family always had excellent taste in art.”

I barely heard her. All I could see was Rowan standing under the streetlights outside the fraternity house years ago. Her face pale. Her voice shaking.

Telling me she never wanted to see me again.

Telling me to stay the hell away from her.

My fingers tightened slowly against the table. “Who,” I asked carefully, making sure she couldn’t read anything in my tone, “is she marrying?”

My mother pressed a few buttons. “Oh,” she said. “A senator’s son, apparently.”

For a second—I didn’t breathe. A strange pressure was building in my chest, slow and hot and violent, like something inside me had just been shoved awake after years of sleep.

“‘A senator’s son,’” I repeated. My voice didn’t sound like mine.

My mother glanced up then, faintly annoyed. “Yes. Very respectable family. His name is Samuel something.”

Samuel Englewood.

Of course.

Of course it was a bastard like that.

Rowan’s family had always had excellent taste in terrible decisions for their daughter.

The pressure in my chest twisted suddenly into something sharper.

Images started flashing through my head like someone had ripped open a locked room in my brain.

Rowan laughing in the library, sunlight in her hair.

Rowan in my bed, whispering my name.

Rowan standing under the streetlight that night, her face white with horror.

Don’t ever come near me again.

My hand slammed down on the table before I even realized I’d moved. The crystal glasses rattled violently, and my mother jumped.

“Cruz!”

I was already on my feet, and my chair skidded backward across the marble floor.

“Apologies, Mother,” I said stiffly. “I’m afraid I really do have to go now.”

Her lips tightened immediately. “Well, really, Cruz, there’s no need to behave like an animal. You could at least pretend to have manners.”

“I did,” I said, shoving one arm into the sleeve of my jacket. “For twenty-seven minutes.”

She set her phone down and once again pursed her lips. “You’re being incredibly rude.”

I paused long enough to look at her. “I learned from the best.”

Her eyes flashed, but I didn’t wait for a response; I was already walking out.

The doors slammed behind me as I stalked across the front steps and down the drive, the heat of the afternoon hitting me like a wall. My pulse was still pounding as I pulled my phone out and hit Jagger’s name.

He answered after two rings. “I just want you to know that I just threatened a contractor, and he didn’t even cry,” he growled. “I better not be losing my touch.”

“Can you spare a few minutes tomorrow?” I asked. “Or maybe an hour, actually.”

There was a short pause on the other end.

“Sure,” Jagger said slowly. “What for?”

I leaned against the car, staring out across the long drive of my mother’s estate, the fountain spraying quietly in the distance. All of it was a stark contrast to the detonation taking place inside my chest.

My mouth curved.

“We have a wedding to crash.”

Get Cruz’s story in Don’t Say I Do here…and keep reading for a bonus scene and sneak preview of my dark cowboy serial killer romance…Dark Horse.

Get Jace’s book, The Wrong Play: here

Get Lincoln Daniels’ book, The Pucking Wrong Number: here.

DON’T SAY MAFIA BONUS SCENE

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TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEAK OF DARK HORSE, MY DARK COWBOY ROMANCE X SERIAL KILLER.

Want to read Jace’s story? Get it HERE.

I knew Jace Thatcher was the wrong play the second he set his sights on me.

He’s the school’s star wide receiver. The campus golden boy. The kind of man who takes what he wants and never lets go.

And what he wants…is me.

But I’m not a game to be won.

I have secrets. Scars. A past that’s still chasing me. And the last thing I need is a cocky football player with an obsessive streak and a dangerous smile trying to claim me like I’m his.

Only Jace doesn’t take no for an answer.

Not when he’s decided I belong to him.

Not when my past comes knocking.

Not even when I try to run.

Because Jace Thatcher plays to win.

And falling for him? Might be the worst play of my life.

Want to read about Darkwood College’s Sphinx Chapter where she’s the daughter of a serial killer? Get it HERE.

Want to read about the Dahlia and the mafia family she’s married off to? Read HERE.

SNEAK PREVIEW OF DARK HORSE

Turn the page for a first look at my new dark cowboy series…think dark cowboy meets serial killers… Available on Amazon and KU HERE.

PROLOGUE

IDIDN’T GRAB ENOUGH.

I knew that as soon as I zipped the duffel closed. Half of it was stuffed with random clothes, the necklace my mother gave me before she died, and two expired protein bars I’d found in a drawer.

I didn’t grab my passport, which was locked in the safe in my office. I didn’t grab my grandmother’s quilt I folded at the end of the bed. I didn’t grab the photograph tucked into the mirror frame, its edges curled from years of sunlight…my smile frozen in a moment I would never get back.

There wasn’t time.

There was never time anymore.

I stepped back from the bed, and the floorboards groaned, making me wince. Every sound felt too loud, too sharp, too exposed. My room was dim, any light warped by the dresser lamp that flickered with a dying bulb.

I lifted the heavy duffel and pulled the strap over my shoulder, and it bit into my collarbone like punishment.

Good.

I deserved it.

I wasn’t running on courage. I was running on fear. Raw, blinding fear…and all I could do was pray it made me faster than him.

The storm outside had broken an hour ago, but the wind still howled through the eaves like a warning, rattling the glass as if it wanted in. The power had already failed more than once. Ten endless seconds of darkness before the lights had sputtered back to life. Even worse, my phone was dead, and no charger on earth was going to revive it fast enough.

I stepped out of my room, into the hallway steeped in darkness. Shadows puddled along the floor, stretching toward me like fingers as I crept toward the stair, a gaping mouth leading down into deeper dark.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My pulse pounded in my ears. Really damn helpful when I was desperately listening for any strange sounds.

I hesitated, squinting into the dark like maybe I would suddenly learn night vision.

Was that…?

There was a faint stir in the air, like a ghost brushing past, and then the barest suggestion of weight on the boards below.

I froze, my breath locked, every nerve straining for proof. Maybe it was just the wind…or the house settling.

Yeah. That was it. Just the house. Please, let it just be the house.

I ticked off the seconds…ten…twenty.

There was nothing but silence.

I had to take a chance.

Forcing myself to move, I clutched the duffel tighter and crept down the stairs, skipping the third step that always groaned. My shoes touched the hardwood, its shine hiding a merciless bite. The same surface that had kissed my cheekbone when he’d slammed me down on it. Every squeak of rubber on the polished floor felt loud enough to give me away.

Keys. Door. Car.

That was the plan. I’d never been good at planning, though. My plans never worked out.

But this one was simple enough to be foolproof. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

The kitchen was dark and quiet, and I moved quickly, grabbing the key ring from the counter with a trembling hand.

As I turned, heading back down the narrow hallway toward the laundry room and the back door, something stopped me cold.

The hallway door, the one that separated the living area from the back of the house...it was cracked open.

Just a few inches. Just enough to bleed darkness through the gap.

It had been shut, though. I knew it had. I’d passed it only a minute ago.

That sick feeling pooled in my gut as I once again reassured myself it was nothing.

Maybe the wind had done it. A draft through the old frame. Hinges that never sat right. A hundred explanations stacked themselves up, one on top of the other.

But the longer I stood there staring at the open door, the flimsier the excuses became. Because even though he’d just been released, and there was no way he could be here yet…

The house was too quiet. Not empty, but quiet like it was holding its breath. Quiet like it was…waiting.

I crept forward, slow enough that every step felt like it took a year off my life. The knife block sat on the counter to my right, right where it always was, ordinary and menacing all at once. My hand slid out before I could second-guess it, and my fingers trailed across the cool wooden edges until they found the handle I wanted.

The biggest blade.

My grip tightened, and I pulled the knife free as quietly as I could. The weight hit my palm with a jolt of déjà vu. His hand had pressed this same knife to my throat once, the blade so steady I’d felt my own pulse beating against the sharpened edge.

I forced my attention back to the dark slit of the open door. Inch by inch, I raised the knife and nudged the gap wider with its tip, every muscle wound tight, braced for what waited on the other side.

The hinges creaked as the door gave way, and I peeked inside.

The laundry room stretched out before me in that same muted cream color that I hated, every surface heavy with stillness. I peered into the room, my eyes locked on the back door. Still bolted. Still shut. Relief started to bleed in…

And the hallway light behind me flicked off.

The room dropped into gray, my breath seizing as I whipped around. Back to the hallway.

But I found nothing there. No watching figure, just a thick, creeping darkness that felt far too interested in me.

A small whimper escaped, and I pressed my back to the wall, fighting the urge to hyperventilate. I fumbled for the switch, and the lights blinked on again, bathing the hallway in a soft white glow. The storm roared outside, the wind battering the glass.

The lights flickered again, then died, plunging me into total darkness.

That’s when I heard it.

Steady breathing that wasn’t mine…threading through the shadows around me.

My eyes darted frantically down the hallway one way, then the other, straining to catch the smallest shape, the faintest movement. But all I could see were black walls and deeper shadows. I kept searching anyway, jerking my head from side to side, certain that if I stared long enough, something would rise out of the dark to stare back.

But nothing revealed itself.

There were no footsteps, no movement…no sounds of anyone there. Only the fridge humming in the background and the sharp, smug tick of his family’s heirloom clock above the stove, a sound I’d hated from the moment I moved in.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I walked down the hall, one slow step at a time, keeping my back against the wall so nothing…and no one…could sneak up behind me.

The knife handle was still gripped tight in my fingers.

I wasn’t going to be a headline on the news. At least, no more than I already had been.

Not tonight.

The window over the couch rattled hard in its frame as a gust of wind crashed against it, and I jumped, my heart slamming into my throat.

I tried to convince myself that was the only thing trying to get in. Just the wind⁠—

“Hello, Sienna.”

Time stopped. I couldn’t breathe. Even the ticking clock seemed to disappear.

The voice had slithered out of the dark, smooth and mocking, echoing the tone he’d used the night I’d clawed at him and dialed the police with shaking, fumbling hands. The night I thought maybe I could get rid of him forever.

It had sounded almost amused then, too…like my struggle was nothing more than his entertainment. Now it came from near the living room, by the front door.

I needed to run. Move, Sienna… Run!

A scream tore loose as I bolted, swinging the knife wildly in front of me, carving at shadows as I ran. The blade cut nothing but air, but I kept slashing, desperate, frantic, as if steel could hold back the darkness chasing me.

I ran to the back, yanking the door open the rest of the way, knife in one hand, keys in the other…my hastily packed bag dropped and abandoned.

The screen door slapped against the siding as I tore into the night.

Mud slicked under my shoes, and my feet slid, but I didn’t stop. I ran through the wet grass, across the yard, aiming for the dark wall of trees at the property’s edge. Their shadows looked like salvation if I could just get there first. I’d circle around the fence, make for a neighbor’s house…maybe my car…anywhere that put distance between his breath and my neck.

A hard gust of wind slammed into me, flinging my hair across my face. I staggered forward. Darkness crowded close, swallowing everything except the faint outline of the shed up ahead.

But I heard him.

The soft crunch of methodical footsteps behind me. He wasn’t running. He didn’t have to. Predators didn’t chase…they stalked, and then closed in.

A sob broke past my lips, wild and ugly. I slapped my palm over my mouth, strangling the rest of it as panic spiked. The half-formed sound lingered in the dark like bait.

Don’t be prey. Don’t be prey. Don’t be prey.

I kept chanting it like it would make any difference. Like it would suddenly give me superhuman speed…or at least enough to outrun a man who had always physically bested me.

I veered around the shed, my heart thundering, and my foot caught on a rut in the ground. My ankle twisted, white-hot pain shooting up my leg. Biting back a cry, I stumbled the last few steps before dropping low behind a rusted wheelbarrow. The knife shook in my grip, clenched so tight my knuckles burned.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The moon slipped free of the clouds for a heartbeat…just long enough to spill light across the yard.

And there he was.

A silhouette cut from shadow, broad-shouldered and unhurried.

He was always like that. Controlled. Calm. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin me.

He stood in the yard, his head tilted like he was listening. I didn’t dare make a sound.

“Sienna…” he called again, low and coaxing. “Come on, sweetheart. I just want to talk.”

Sweetheart.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming and curled tighter into the shadows, willing myself invisible.

Rain fell again, soft at first, then steady, pelting the tin roof of the shed in a rhythmic beat that almost masked the sounds of his boots moving closer.

I held my breath.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he said, his voice seeping into the night like smoke under a door. “You always were stubborn.”

That voice. I felt it in my bones before I even processed the words, a cold clamp closing around my spine.

No.

I wasn’t doing this.

I wasn’t falling apart. Not again.

I crept backward on hands and knees, away from the shed, deeper into the shadows, where the trees started. My injured ankle rolled on a branch, but I bit down on the cry of pain.

I was almost there.

If I could just get to the neighbor’s fence line—just far enough to scream, to be seen⁠—

A twig snapped behind me, and I twisted toward the sound, my palms scraping the dirt.

Nothing.

Dragging my gaze back…I collided against a nightmare.

“There you are,” he murmured as he bent over me. Too fast, his arm snaked around my waist, and he hauled me off the ground. His other hand clamped around my wrist. My nerves shrieked as bone ground beneath his grip.

The knife slipped from my hand, and desperately, futilely, I reached out after it. “No, no, no, no… NO!”

“I said stop running,” he growled furiously. His breath flushed hot against my ear.

I thrashed, kicking and clawing…but he only cinched me tighter. My twisted ankle screamed as he dragged me toward the woods, rain sluicing over us both, his hold unyielding, my breath breaking out in staccato gasps.

The security light on the next property burst on, flooding the night with a bright, artificial glare.

“Hey!” a throaty female voice called. “What the hell are you doing?”

It was Mrs. Callahan. The widow next door, who sometimes marched over with a ruler to measure the grass at the edge of my lawn, just to make sure I was cutting it short enough.

Her porchlight snapped on next. God bless nosy neighbors.

His grip loosened for a breath, just long enough.

I seized the knife from the mud and turned, adrenaline roaring in my ears.

A strange calm swept through me, cold and absolute.

And then everything went black.

Keep reading Dark Horse here…

THE PUCKING WRONG NUMBER

Meet Lincoln Daniels and the rest of the Dallas Knights HERE.

BLANCHE’S BROWNIE RECIPE

Servings: 16 Brownies

Ingredients

Brownie

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar*

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

2/3 cup cocoa powder, sifted if lumpy

1/2 cup powdered sugar, sifted if lumpy

1/4 cup dark chocolate chips

1/4 cup milk chocolate chips

3/4 teaspoons sea salt

2 large eggs

1/2 cup avocado oil

2 tablespoons water

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Peanut Butter Frosting

5 Tablespoons unsalted butter, softened to room temperature

1 cup creamy peanut butter*

1 cup confectioners’ sugar

1/3 cup heavy cream, at room temperature

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

¼ teaspoon salt

Instructions

Brownie

Preheat your oven to 325°F. Lightly coat an 8×8 baking pan with cooking spray, then line the pan with parchment paper and give the parchment another light spray.

In a medium mixing bowl, stir together the sugar, flour, cocoa powder, powdered sugar, chocolate chips, and salt until evenly combined.

In a separate large bowl, whisk the eggs, olive oil, water, and vanilla extract until smooth.

Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and mix until everything is fully incorporated.

Transfer the batter to the prepared pan and spread it evenly with a spatula. Bake for about 40 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with just a few moist crumbs. (Tip: slightly underbaked brownies are better than overbaked ones.)

Once the brownies are completely cooled, spread with frosting!

Frosting

Using a hand mixer or a stand mixer fitted with the paddle or whisk attachment, beat the butter on medium speed until smooth and creamy, about 2 minutes. Add the peanut butter, powdered (confectioners’) sugar, heavy cream, vanilla extract, and salt while mixing on low speed. Once incorporated, raise the speed to high and continue beating for about 3 minutes until light and fluffy.

If the frosting seems too thin, mix in up to ¼ cup additional powdered sugar. If it’s too thick, add another tablespoon of cream to loosen it.

Store the frosting in a tightly sealed container in the refrigerator for up to one week.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dear Reader,

If you’re holding this, then you already know Jagger Thatcher isn’t a man you forget.

He’s a man who walks into a room and ruins everyone else for you. A man who doesn’t ask for permission, who doesn’t apologize, who decides something is his . . .and then makes it true.

Including Eden . . .and including you, a little bit.

This book was written to lean into all the dark, obsessive love you all devour in my books. This isn’t hockey, or football . . .this is mafia, which means that I got to play hard in this book. Jagger loves with teeth. And Eden . . .she was never meant to survive that kind of attention, at least not unchanged.

But that’s always been the point, hasn’t it? The Wrong men don’t fix the heroine. They don’t make her smaller or safer or easier to swallow. They meet her exactly where she is…and then burn the world down to keep her.

This book exists because of you.

Because you show up for me in a way that still humbles me. You read the messy parts and the uncomfortable parts. The moments that weren’t pretty or polished or “right” . . .and you loved them anyway. You understood what I was trying to do with these characters even when they didn’t understand themselves.

So, this is me, saying thank you.

For trusting me with your time. For falling a little too hard for morally gray men. For always wanting more of the obsession and the intensity.

And for letting Jagger Thatcher live in your head rent-free. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

With all my love,

C.R. Jane

A few thank you’s…

To my beta readers, Crystal and Blair: You believed in me and these stories long before there was any reason to, and I’ll never forget that. Your feedback, your encouragement, and your friendship have shaped more than just these books—they’ve shaped me. You’ve been part of this journey almost from the start, and I carry that with me every time I sit down to write.

To Stephanie, my editor: Thank you for throwing yourself into these stories with me every single time. You ask the hard questions, catch the things I miss, and somehow always make the book better than it was the day before. You see these characters clearly, even when they’re a mess, and that kind of insight is something I never take for granted. I’m so lucky to have you in my corner.

To Stephanie, my agent: Thank you for your guidance, your belief, and for always having my back.

To Raven: Moons forever. Some things don’t fade, don’t shift, don’t get rewritten—and you’re one of them.

To my PAs and bffs, Caitlin & Sarah: Love you forever.

To my publisher, Podium: Working with this team has been one of the best parts of this journey. Cassie, Victoria, Laura—thank you for the care, the attention, and the way you champion these stories every step of the way. I’m so grateful to be building this world with people who believe in it as much as I do.

To my husband: You’re the one thing I never have to question. The best part of every day, and the life I’ll always choose.

And to you, the readers who make all of this possible: Every story begins with me, but it only comes to life because of you. Thank you for showing up for these characters, for feeling everything right alongside them, and for embracing the kind of love that doesn’t always follow the rules—but still finds its way to something meaningful.

ABOUT C.R. JANE

I like heroines who have to grow in order to become badasses, happy endings, and  swoon-worthy, devoted, (and hot) male characters. If this sounds like you, I’m pretty sure we’ll be friends.

I’m so glad to have you here…check out the links below for ways to hang out with me and more of my books you can read!

Visit my Facebook page to get updates.

Visit my Website.

Sign up for my newsletter to stay updated on new releases, find out random facts about me, and get access to different points of view from my characters.

BOOKS BY C.R. JANE

www.crjanebooks.com

The Pucking Wrong Series (Hockey Romance Standalones)

The Pucking Wrong Number

The Pucking Wrong Guy

A Pucking Wrong Christmas (a novella)

The Pucking Wrong Date

The Pucking Wrong Man

The Pucking Wrong Rookie

The Wrong Made Men Series (Dark Mafia Standalones)

Don’t Say Mafia

Don’t Say I-Do

The Wrong Player Series (Football Romance Standalones)

The Wrong Quarterback

The Wrong Play

The Wrong Catch

The Wrong Call

Merry Me (Standalone in the Wrong Player World)

Merry Me

The Spartan Flame Trilogy (Dark Greek Mythology Romantasy)

Shadows of Sparta

(Dark Cowboy Standalone Romance)

Dark Horse

The Sounds of Us Contemporary Series (complete series)

Remember Us This Way

Remember You This Way

Remember Me This Way

Broken Hearts Academy Series: A Bully Romance (complete duet)

Heartbreak Prince

Heartbreak Lover

Ruining Dahlia (Contemporary Mafia Standalone)

Ruining Dahlia

The Fated Wings Series (Paranormal series)

First Impressions

Forgotten Specters

The Fallen One (a Fated Wings Novella)

Forbidden Queens

Frightful Beginnings (a Fated Wings Short Story)

Faded Realms

Faithless Dreams

Fabled Kingdoms

Forever Hearts

The Darkest Curse Series

Forget Me

Lost Passions

Hades Redemption Series

The Darkest Lover

The Darkest Kingdom

Rich Demons of Darkwood Series Co-write with May Dawson (complete series)

Make Me Lie

Make Me Beg

Make Me Wild

Make Me Burn

Make Me Queen

Monster & Me Duet Co-write with Mila Young

Monster’s Temptation

Monster’s Obsession

The Rich Demons of Hockey Duet Cowrite with May Dawson

No Pucking Way

Our Pucking Way

Academy of Souls Co-write with Mila Young (complete series)

School of Broken Souls

School of Broken Hearts

School of Broken Dreams

School of Broken Wings

Fallen World Series Co-write with Mila Young (complete series)

Bound

Broken

Betrayed

Belong

Thief of Hearts Co-write with Mila Young (complete series)

Darkest Destiny

Stolen Destiny

Broken Destiny

Sweet Destiny

Kingdom of Wolves Co-write with Mila Young

Wild Moon

Wild Heart

Wild Girl

Wild Love

Wild Soul

Wild Kiss

Stupid Boys Series Co-write with Rebecca Royce

Stupid Boys

Dumb Girl

Crazy Love

Breathe Me Duet Co-write with Ivy Fox (complete)

Breathe Me

Breathe You

Breathe Me Duet

Love & Hate Co-write with Ivy Fox (complete)

The Boy I Once Hated

The Girl I Once Loved