I give him everything. Her injuries, the cuts on her arms from busting up Chuck’s room, the panic in her voice, the way she rode in bloodied and shaking but still in control of that bike as if the damn street was hers.
“She’s upstairs now. Showering. But she’s rattled. Said one of the men had a foreign accent. Could be nothing. Could be Donovan.” If it was Donovan, hell itself won’t be enough to hide him from me.
That name makes everything inside me clench.
If Donovan had anything to do with this, if he even breathed in Candace’s direction, I’ll take him apart bolt by bolt. I’ve been looking for a thread that leads back to my brother and sister for years. Donovan was the last one seen with Cornelius before he died. I know he knows something. Now he’s circling back as a vulture would, thinking we won’t notice? Thinking I won’t come for him?
He’s wrong.
Nash is already moving. I hear the rustle of fabric, the jangle of keys. “I’m heading to their place now. Maybe I can pick up a trail.”
“Loop in Leo and Arden,” I tell him. “Keep Victor out of it for now. I don’t want him spiraling unless Donovan’s name gets confirmed. We need to be surgical until we know what we’re dealing with.” A small voice in the back of my head whispers.If Frankie gets any hunches, we’ll follow them too. No lead is off the table.
“Copy. I’ll update you soon.”
When I hang up, my hand stays clenched around the phone. I text Knox and East, set up a morning meet, and ask Knox to bring Sloane. Candace needs someone who knows how to read pain that doesn’t bruise easy. Someone who can catch the damage that hides in the quiet.
I toss my phone aside and stare at the door she’s behind.
I’d left a pair of my boxers and a worn black tee folded at the foot of the bed before she went in. Clean. Soft. Mine. Now I can’t stop picturing her in it. Skin damp. Hair curling from the heat. Her scent pressing into the fabric where mine used to live. She’s claiming my space. My things. My air. I don’t fucking mind.
My hand tightens again; this time it’s not from rage.
Not the time. She’s hurt. Shaken. Processing what happened in that hellhole she still had to call home. But the image—her bare in the next room, only a wall and a whisper of steam away—fuses itself to the inside of my skull.
Then the shower cuts off.
My pulse kicks up. Fast. Immediate.
A moment later, the bathroom door creaks open, and steam rolls out in curls, fog off a battlefield. She steps through it barefoot, hair twisted into a messy bun, a few damp strands clinging to her neck. My tee hangs off one shoulder, swallowing her frame, and my boxers cling to her hips as if they’ve found religion.
She’s a vision. Bruised. Raw. Gorgeous.
The kind of beautiful that ruins a man’s peace.
She catches my stare. Sees the heat I’m not bothering to hide pressing against my sweats. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize. She’s still standing. Still fighting. Even now.
She’s still shaken. But she’s not broken.
“I didn’t wash my hair,” she says, voice soft. “I have special products for it. Curly hair’s a bitch to deal with.”
That little flash of pride, of control, guts me. Even after everything, she’s still holding onto this piece of herself. A flag she refuses to let fall.
“I’ll have Nash swing by your place,” I say, voice level. “Grab your stuff. Anything else you want?”
She hesitates, shifting her weight. Her arms fold over her chest, not to hide, but to hold herself in. Her fingers tug at the hem of the shirt as if she’s grounding herself there.
“My guitar,” she says, so quiet I almost miss it. The word lands carrying the weight of a secret she never meant to tell.
I blink. “You play?”
She nods, jaw working. “And my notebooks. If they’re still there. I don’t need them, but… I just want to know they’re okay.”
Then her face changes. Eyes wide. Breath catching. A sudden, sharp intake. As if realizing too late you’ve left the door unlocked.
“What if he went back? What if he took the guitar? What if he tries to sell it?”
Panic laces her voice, ragged and sudden. Her grip tightens around the fabric of my shirt.
