He turns and opens the shower door, the spray of the water soaking the floor. He yanks a towel off the rack and rubs it over his face. He doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just pushes the bathroom door open and slams it behind him.
The sound echoes through the bathroom, leaving only the steady rush of water hitting the tile. I stand there,limbs shaky, breath uneven, my body still humming from everything he just did to me.
I step back beneath the stream, letting the water wash him from my skin. My hand finds the handle. A quick twist. The shower stops, leaving behind a silence so abrupt it hums in my ears. My skin is flushed, my pulsedeep and slow, my body fully satisfied. I run my hands down my arms, trying to ground myself, trying to ignore the way my stomach clenches at the way his hands were just on me. Inside me.
I step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and dry off slowly, dreading walking into the chaos waiting outside the bathroom door. I pull on my clothes, each layerfeeling too much, too real, too normalafter what just happened. I breathe in deeply, pressing my palms against the counter, staring at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror.
What the hell happens now?
Chapter Twenty-Three
MARLOWE
No one notices me when I walk in the living room. The brothers sit in a half-circle, hunched over, voiceslow.
"We should just kill him," Damian mutters.
"Yeah, that’ll really help us figure out where the hell the money is," Bridger shoots back.
Cody shakes his head, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Not saying I’d be sad if the bastard disappeared, but what does that do for us? It doesn’t get us the cash."
They all want Vick dead. I get it, because so do I. But that won’t fix any of this. The second I step further into the room, they stop talking. Three pairs of eyes flick to me, assessing and cautious. I’m a problem they don’t know how to deal with yet. I ignore it, moving on autopilot, sinking into the chair closest to me. My body feels weightless, like I might float away if I don’t anchor myself to something.
From the kitchen, soft music humsjust above a whisper, a slow melody blending with the quiet sounds of a brush sweeping across paper.
I glance over. Delilah sits at the table, watercolor paints scattered around her, tubes of pigment left open, some tipped over, bleeding onto napkins, smearing against her fingers. Herbrush drags through a soft wash of blue, her lips parted slightly, completely absorbed in whatever world she’s creating on the paper in front of her.
I tear my eyes away and press my fingers to my temples, trying to think through the sudden pounding in my skull. Then I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "Don’t stop your assassination plans on my account," I say, my voice steady. "Please, continue. I have no desire to save that man’s life right now."
Cody lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "I get what you see in her," he says to Damian.
"Shut up," Damian snaps back. "I don’t see anything in anybody."
A tense silence settles between us.
His eyes meet mine, and drop away immediately. It punches right through me. The warmth of him that still clings to my skin turns cold, doubt spreading in its place. I search his face for something—connection, clarity, anything—but he won’t look at me.
Bridger sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by whatever this is turning into. "Okay, stop. Please," he says, looking between the two of us. "We all heard you in the bathroom not five minutes ago."
Heat rises to my cheeks in a rush.
"You like her," Bridger continues, voice flat, impatient. "Who cares? Get over yourself. Let’s figure out what the fuck we need to do to get this money back."
Cody smirks, shifting in his seat, but he doesn’t add anything.
I press my hand to my throat, my body still too sensitive, too aware of Damian sitting across from me. I don’t let myself look at him again.
"You’re right, we’re wasting time," Damian says. "If we don’t figure this out now, we’re fucked."
Okay, I guess he’s just going to ignore the part about me.
Bridger nods, leaning forward, arms braced against his knees. "Then let’s start with the facts. The money isn’t where Vick said it would be. We have no idea if it was ever here to begin with."
Damian’s shoulders rise with a slow breath, his fingers tapping against his thigh like he’s barely holding himself in check. "So what the hell do we do next? Because killing him would make me feel a lot better."
"Whose money is it?" I ask, looking between them. "How did my father get it? And why the hell was he asking me for money if he had that much stashed away?" The moment the words leave my mouth, something clicks. He kept asking for money. Over and over. Calling me, guilt-tripping me, pushing until I gave in. If he had half a million dollars, he wouldn’t have needed anything from me. “He…he didn’t have it,” I stammer. “When he was asking me for money, he couldn’t have had five hundred grand sitting around. Right?”
Damian lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “That’s bullshit.” His voice is dark. “Vick took that money. And you’re either blind, or you know exactly where it went and just don’t want to admit it because he’s your father.”
