“And we need someone who can hack,” Cruz offers, like he’s thinking the same thing I am.
We need the Hales.
Rafe’s eyes flick, subtle, toward Bishop. “He’s not wrong.”
Bishop’s mouth tightens. “And your solution is what? Bringing in Bellamy?”
Cruz’s gaze slides to me for half a second, like he’s daring me.
I don’t even mean to speak. It just comes out. “It worked last time.”
Bishop’s eyes go flat. “Rafe got shot.”
“It would’ve happened anyway,” Rafe says with a shrug. “Bellamy proved to be much more useful than you thought she’d be.”
My stomach tightens at the casual way he says it. At the way he says her name.
Coco’s gaze flicks between us, sharp and calculating. She doesn’t comment. She neither approves nor denies. She just absorbs. Like she’s already moving pieces on a board none of us can see.
Bishop exhales through his nose, controlled anger making his shoulders rise. “We’re not bringing the Hales into this.”
“I trust you to make the right call. Don’t let your pride stop you from making smart choices, honey,” Coco says.
“Fine.” He nods once, because he always does.
“Clock’s ticking, boys,” Coco says, sipping her coffee.
My chair scrapes against the concrete as I stand, legs catching on the uneven patio. “I'll bring Bellamy the job.”
Cruz's chair follows with a sharper sound. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I'll come with you.” His voice lilts on the last word, almost musical with implication.
Cruz claps me lightly on the shoulder as we walk toward the driveway, grin sharp. “Cheer up, brother. She’s gonna say yes.”
“I know.” I swing my leg over my bike and shove my helmet on.
As the engine kicks to life, the last thing I see is Coco through the kitchen window, watching us leave like she’s already counting the money this job will bring in.
And I think, with a grim little spark of clarity: Nothing in this family changes unless it threatens the whole structure.
Which means if Bellamy is a threat, she might be the only thing that ever incites change.
39
BELLAMY
By the timeI reach the coffee shop, the day has settled into that easy, salt-bright calm Hollow Beach does so well. The air smells of the ocean.
A few hours ago, I was standing barefoot on cool tile while Gage Calloway watched me finger myself through fogged glass like he’d never seen a woman naked before.
Fifteen minutes after that, Bishop Calloway was in my space, trying to scare me.
What a fucking paradox the Calloways are.
The bell over the coffee shop door jingles as I step inside, greeted by the low hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine. I order the same thing I always do, exchange a few words with the barista who knows me by name, and wait near the window, sunlight spilling across the floor in wide, lazy bands.
That's when I feel it. The weight of eyes on my back—that unmistakable prickle across my skin like static electricity gathering before a storm. The sensation of being watched. The air in the room shifts, molecules rearranging themselves around a new presence.
Attention.
