The realization hit me like a physical blow. Vance had been watching me. Had seen me with Drew. Which meant he knew more than I’d realized, had more leverage than I’d thought.
“Meet me tonight,” he repeated. “Or I start making your life very difficult.”
The line went dead.
I sat there, phone clutched in my hand, feeling the walls closing in from every direction. Rafael on one side. Vance on the other. Drew somewhere in the middle, offering help I didn’t know if I could accept.
And underneath it all, the truth I’d been chasing for two years. The reason my father had died. The lies that had built my entire existence.
I was so fucking tired of running.
The front door opened, and Drew stepped inside.
He saw my face and stopped. “What happened?”
I could lie. Should lie. Keep him out of this mess before it dragged him under, too.
But I was tired of lying. Tired of carrying everything alone.
“Remember when you said if I was in trouble, you could help?” I asked, my voice rough.
He nodded slowly.
“I need help.”
The words felt like surrender. Like admitting defeat. But as Drew crossed the room and sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched, I realized it felt like something else too.
Like hope.
“Tell me everything,” he said quietly. “And we’ll figure it out together.”
So I did. Started talking and didn’t stop until he knew about Vance, about the intel I’d been feeding him, about the investigation into my father’s death, and the years I’d spent believing the Bratva had stolen everything from me.
I told him about the orphanage. About Rafael finding me three years ago. About the sick twist of fate that had put me directly under the control of the organization I blamed for destroying my life.
And when I was done, when every secret had been laid bare between us, Drew didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
He just looked at me with those gray eyes and said five words that changed everything.
“What if I have the itch again?” Drew asked, and there was something raw in his voice. Something desperate and real that matched the chaos in my chest.
I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden, charged silence. The heat building between us was a physical thing, a pressure in the air. I stepped closer, my eyes locked on his. “Then we scratch it.”
No hesitation this time. No pulling back. No second-guessing.
I didn’t just push him; I claimed him. I stepped into his space, my hands landing flat on his chest. I could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my palms, or maybe it wasmine. I pushed, and he stumbled backward. My mouth was on his before his knees hit the edge of the bed.
We collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and racing hearts. His mouth wasn’t just on mine; it wasconsumingmine. This kiss was deeper than before. His tongue plunged past my lips, tasting me, staking a claim. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an exorcism, both of us trying to erase the distance, the lies, the bullshit, trying to find one real thing to hold onto.
His hands weren’t gentle. They found my waist, fingers digging in, anchoring me to him as I straddled his lap. One hand slid up my ribs, his thumb brushing the sensitive underside of my breast through my shirt. I gasped into his mouth, the jolt of pleasure sharp and electric.
“More,” I breathed, tearing my mouth away.
“Anything,” he rasped, his own lips attacking my neck, his stubble scraping against my skin in a way that lit every nerve on fire.
My fingers clawed at his shirt, desperate to feel skin, to anchor myself to something solid. “Off,” I panted, fumbling with the buttons. “Get it off.”
He broke the kiss to rip his own T-shirt over his head, and I helped him, my hands greedy. Finally. Skin. Hot, solid, male. My palms splayed across his chest, feeling the muscles jump under my touch as his mouth found my collarbone, sucking a mark.
