The laptop was allI needed. My hands shook as I opened the vanishing message app—familiar now in the worst way. Only one message this time, pulsing at the top of the terminal before it faded to nothing.
I got the screenshot.
K:I tried to stop it.
K: It’s smarter than you. Hungrier than me.
K: You fed it your fucking soul.
K: Now it has mine.
K:Help me.
I staredat words that had a whole new tone. It sounded as if Kessler was scared of the very system that had made him a billionaire. The screen blurred. Not from movement—my eyes wouldn’t focus. My brain floated somewhere far away, as if I were underwater, watching someone else hold the laptop. The humming in my ears got louder. I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t move.
I saw my hands. I just didn’t feel them.
“Stop this!” I snapped, and my stomach lurched. I sucked in air, tasted static, and slammed the laptop shut hard enough to make it jump on my knees.
“Fuck,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like mine.
But at least I was back. Restlessness made me pace the room, and then, I needed out of this space. I was never good with boredom, and sitting up here was boredom on steroids, so I headed out and sat at the top of the metal stairs to the garage and peered through the banister gaps into Redcars proper. No one spotted me, or if they did, they ignored me.
The space was all hard edges and heat. A long bank of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in flickers of blue-white. One wall was lined with tool cabinets; each drawer tagged with neat white labels. A welding mask hung askew beside abattered bulletin board plastered with notes and old photos. Grease-slicked floor, smell of oil, metal, and something warm and earthy I couldn’t name. Two cars sat under the lights—an older one, stripped to the frame with its hood cranked open; the other, a flashy sports car, mid-repair.
Enzo was working on the sports car, his head deep in the engine’s innards, his black tank already streaked with sweat and smudges.
And then, there was Rio.
Half in, half out of the second car, his broad back arched under the open hood, legs braced wide, shirt tight across the curve of his spine. His jeans hugged his ass—round, taut, ridiculous. Strong thighs, dusted with oil and shadow, shifted as he leaned further in, the motion flexing his whole frame.
He was pure power. No elegance, just raw capability. Methodical. Focused. Muscle and menace in equal parts.
And God help me, I couldn’t stop staring.
His shirt clung to the ridges of his back, sweat darkening the collar, and I hated the way it made my mouth go dry. He twisted a wrench and grunted, forearm flexing, and my stomach did this dumb flip. I crossed my arms so I wouldn’t fucking reach out.
Who the hell gets turned-on by someone fixing a car?
Me. Apparently.
It wasn’t only the way Rio looked—it was the hunger in me, the kind that hadn’t had space to breathe in years. That had to be why I was staring at the curve of Rio’s ass as if I hadn’t seen one before. As if I wanted to bend him over that car and fucking bite it, and lick him open, and… fuck. He wasn’t even doing anything special—just working, all tense muscles and sweat—but my gaze stuck to him like Velcro, brain glitching on the roll of his hips and the faint tug of his jeans.
I was in trouble.
We weren’t compatible. He would be all alpha and control, and what I desired was a man who’d let me see the softer edges, the parts he couldn’t keep chained down. Instead, my fucked-up libido had to fixate on the worst possible option for a man who’d go to his knees for me.
I was still perched halfway down the stairs when Robbie wandered out of the office with the door, saw me sitting there, and headed my way. I tensed instinctively, ready for him to order me upstairs—or in Robbie’s case, ask me politely—but he didn’t. Heclimbed up and settled beside me with a slight grunt, leaving a polite amount of space between us.
I watched him warily, but he didn’t act as if he was gearing up to interrogate me.
“How’re you doing?” he asked.
“Good.”
“You need more meds?”
“No, I’m okay.”
