Chapter One
Beatriz Cruz still felt his hands when she opened her eyes.
The door had clicked open moments before. The kind of sound that barely disturbed the night.
Bea stirred, blinking in the dim glow of her bedside lamp. Her body was heavy with sleep, but she knew she wasn’t alone anymore. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Gage.
She heard the soft rustle of fabric, the deep, measured exhale he always let out at the end of a long day. Then the quiet clink of his watch being set on the nightstand. The faint slide of a belt slipping from its loops.
Her stomach tightened.
She turned her head, catching the movement of him in the dark—the crisp white of his dress shirt, the way he moved through the space like he belonged there. Like she was waiting for him.
“You’re back?” she mumbled.
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
The mattress dipped, and then he was over her, one arm braced beside her head, the other sliding beneath the covers, fingers skimming down to her bare inner thigh.
Bea’s breath caught. She was fully awake now.
“What are you doing?” she murmured, but her body was already responding, arching into him. Her fingers explored beneath the fabric of his shirt. His skin was warm. His muscles were hard, smooth to the touch.
“What we both need,” he said, voice low.
He leaned in, brushing his lips against her jaw, dragging his nose along the line of her throat.
She shivered.
His hands found her hips, positioning her.
And then?—
The moment shattered.
Bea woke with a sharp inhale, her body still humming, sheets twisted around her legs. For one impossible second, she could still feel him. A phantom sensation of his body, his hands.
Her childhood bedroom took shape in the dark. The tall bookshelf, the desk by the window, the faint outline of neatly folded blankets at the foot of the bed. She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering, air too warm despite the winter air seeping in through the window.
Canada.
Not the United Republic of Westhaven.
Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as reality settled in, as the remembrance of the distance between them wrapped cold fingers around her ribs.
She turned, reaching blindly for her phone on the nightstand.
12:12 a.m.
Gage would still be at work.
For a long moment, she just stared at the screen, thumb hovering over his name. She could call him. He’d answer. But something held her back. Instead, she typed out a text.
BEA: I miss you.
She hesitated, second-guessing, then finally hit Send. The message was delivered instantly, but there was no typing bubble, no response.
