I’m ready.
For now, I push the thought aside and focus on preparation. For Caruso. For whatever comes next. For her.
Whatever it looks like, however messy it gets, I’ll make it work.
Because she deserves it.
And so do we.
20
CHANCE
My gut buzzes like a live wire, and it isn’t just Caruso. That bastard alone is enough to put anyone on edge, but something is off with Roxie.
Something that doesn’t match the usual trauma-flash flares I’ve learned to watch for. This is different. Quieter. More internal, like she’s struggling with something she hasn’t said out loud yet.
Back in the day, the Corps drilled instincts into me so deep they fused with bone and muscle and became part of who I am, and every single one of them is screaming at me to pay attention. So far, I try to ignore them, waiting patiently but keyed up, for her to come to me on her own.
I can’t wait anymore.
So here I am, standing outside her door late in the afternoon, long shadows stretching down the hall. I wonder if I’m just being paranoid, but I can practically feel Boone and Dillon doing their own versions of pacing. Boone in the kitchen, and Dillon buried in work.
We can’t keep doing this.
Roxie opened up to me about Caruso. That means something. And I need to make sure she’s okay. It feels like we take one step forward and four back, but we’d still burn the world to the ground to protect this girl.
I lift my fist and knock softly.
A few seconds pass before her voice drifts through the door, thin and distracted.
“Come in.”
I push the door open.
She’s stretched out on the bed, one hand resting flat against her stomach. Her gaze is fixed on the snowy peaks outside the window, unfocused, far away, lost in thoughts deep enough to drown in.
The sight hits me square in the chest. The gnawing in my gut spikes instantly.
“Hey, angel,” I say quietly. “Can I come in?”
She blinks a few times and pushes herself up, twisting to face me. Her hair gets lighter by the day, gold catching in the afternoon sun. It spills loose past her shoulders. She’s wrapped in an oversized shirt that definitely belongs to Boone, leggings and fluffy socks completing the picture.
“Hey,” she murmurs, aiming for casual and missing. “What’s up? Do you need me for something?”
“No.” I step inside and close the door. The air shifts immediately, the way it always does when it’s just us. “I just wanted to check on you. Are you okay?”
I move closer, keeping my voice light even though my pulse isn’t.
“You’ve been really quiet the last week.”
“Oh, I’m fine.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just tired.”
Bullshit. Beautiful, stubborn bullshit.
I crouch beside the bed so I’m looking up at her instead of down. “Roxie.”
Her jaw tightens just a fraction, but it’s enough. My blood edges toward that darker place I keep locked down, the part of me that turns lethal when someone I care about is hurting. That darkness isn’t for her.
