I do trust her. God help me, I trust this beautiful disaster completely.
I'm dressed and at her back door in three minutes flat. She hands me my cut, her fingers lingering on the leather.
"Text me when it's safe," I tell her.
"Nothing about this is safe," she responds. "We're operating without safety protocols, informed consent, or basic common sense. But I'll text you when it's over."
I leave through the back as Miguel's bike roars into the front parking lot.
My phone buzzes as I reach my own bike.
Lena:Whatever happens, this morning was worth the inevitable destruction
It's not over
Lena:I know. That's what terrifies me. My disaster has developed disaster subspecialties
Good. Fear keeps us sharp
Lena:We're disasters, not warriors
Same thing, different uniform
Lena:Yours has more leather
Miguel's voice carries through the morning air, sharp and angry. But Lena's voice follows, steady and sure, and I realize something that should terrify me more than it does:
I'm falling in love with a disaster who diagnoses chaos with the same precision she uses to read EKG rhythms.
And we're about to burn everything down together, with medical accuracy and terrible enthusiasm.
Chapter twenty-seven
Supply Closet Sins
Lena
Miguel doesn't knock. He has a key—of course he has a key—and he uses it like a weapon, the door slamming open hard enough to make my neighbors update their emergency contacts.
I'm sitting on my couch, wearing Zane's t-shirt and my own underwear, looking like the world's most obvious bad decision. The apartment still smells like sex and mistakes. There's a hickey on my neck that's basically a signed confession. My thighs are still sticky with evidence that would hold up in court, and I can feel Zane everywhere—phantom touches that make me clench around nothing while my medical brain calculates sperm survival rates in the vaginal environment (up to 5 days, fuck my life).
"You lied to me," Miguel says, and his voice is quiet. Miguel quiet is Miguel lethal. "Right to my face, hermana. You lied."
"I did," I admit, because what's the point in denying it? I'm wearing another man's shirt, my lips are still swollen from activities that definitely violate family loyalty clauses, and there's probably DNA evidence on every surface including some that would glow under blacklight. "Multiple times. With conviction. With the dedication of someone pursuing a terminal degree in deception."
He moves into my apartment like a storm system, all contained violence and disappointed brother energy. His eyes catalog everything—the two coffee cups on the counter, Zane's belt on my floor (fuck, missed that in the ten-minute panic clean), the general aura of 'someone definitely got railed here repeatedly and enthusiastically.'
"He's Iron Talon," Miguel says, like I might have missed this crucial detail while Zane was rearranging my internal architecture.
"I'm aware. Extensively aware. My cervix could provide detailed testimony."
"He's killed people."
"So have you."
"For the club. For family." He turns to face me, and the pain in his eyes makes my chest tight enough to require differential diagnosis. "He's the enemy, Lena. The actual, literal enemy."
"He's a man," I counter, pulling my knees to my chest like that might protect me from the weight of his disappointment. "A complicated, dangerous, disaster of a man who makes me feel—"
