Bishop’s silhouette is carved sharp against the darkness, every muscle locked in a line of tension from jaw to fists. He’snot sitting. Not anymore. He’s standing, watching me like he’s daring the universe to look away first.
My pulse thunders in my ears, but I’m hyperaware of everything: the slick heat of Rafe’s body pressed behind me, the raw ache between my thighs, the way the sheet has slipped down to bare my chest, nipples tight and flushed in the cooled air. I don’t cover myself. I don’t look away.
But to my utter surprise, he doesn't say anything. His jaw works silently, a muscle twitching beneath the shadow of stubble. I don't know how long we look at one another in the silence, letting the soft twilight bleed into early morning, the room gradually shifting from silver-blue to the color of weak tea. My skin prickles with awareness, every breath between us charged like the air before lightning strikes.
Sleep doesn't come.
It never does when something this dangerous has already begun, when the line you've crossed feels like stepping off a cliff with your eyes wide open.
45
RAFE
I leanagainst the outside of the garage and wait. The sun bleeds orange across the horizon, earlier than we usually meet before a job.
Bishop's shadow stretches long across the driveway as he paces inside the garage, checking his phone every thirty seconds like it might suddenly sprout the answers he needs. His jaw hasn't unclenched since we got back from the desert.
When he turns, I catch the dark circles under his eyes, the muscle jumping in his cheek. I roll my shoulders back, focus on the cooling air against my skin, the distant sound of an approaching engine that might be hers. Let him stew in whatever's eating him. I've got my own countdown running—forty-seven hours since I last saw her face.
Longer since she saw me though.
Headlights sweep the driveway, then die. Doors open and laughter spills out into the air. Bellamy's laugh rings highest, clear as a bell. Bishop's shoulders tense at the sound. I watch his fingers curl into fists, then slowly release.
They bring the scent of sugar and coffee with them, like they're heading to a goddamn picnic instead of a meeting for a million-dollar heist.
Bishop glances at me, jaw working, that muscle in his cheek jumping like it's trying to escape. My brother hasn't slept right since the desert—since he sat there and watched through half-closed eyes while Bellamy arched beneath me. His gaze had been intense, devouring the sight of her moaning my name as I devouredher.
Best goddamn meal of my life.
He hasn’t brought it up, and neither have I. What’s there to say?
Hard to judge a man for wanting Bellamy Hale. She’s fucking addictive.
Bellamy strolls up the driveway, balancing two pink donut boxes against her hip, the cardboard bending slightly under the weight. The frayed edges of her cutoffs brush against tanned thighs with each step, and the faded band logo on her shirt stretches across her collarbone when she shifts the boxes higher. Her hair catches the breeze, loose waves that she absently tucks behind one ear. No telltale bulge of a weapon at her waistband, no tension in her shoulders. Just a smile that makes my fingers twitch toward the lighter in my pocket.
Bellamy's stride hitches mid-step when our eyes lock. Her lips part slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward before she catches herself. Lola materializes at her right shoulder, her jaw tightening when she spots me. Her fingers drum once against her thigh—a warning.
Behind them, glass bottles clink as Beck adjusts his grip on a plastic bag. His eyes flick from me to Bellamy, one eyebrow rising in that way that says he's calculating odds.
“Take these,” Bellamy murmurs, pushing the pink boxes into Lola's reluctant hands with a slight nod toward Beck. “I'll be right there.”
Lola's shoulders tense, her fingers tightening around the pink cardboard edges until they crease. She glances at Bellamy, then at me, her jaw shifting sideways like she's grinding down on something bitter.
“Yeah,” Lola says, each syllable measured out like medicine. “Sure. But just know I’m not in the mood for Bishop’s shit tonight, so if you’re not there to referee, we might be a man down tomorrow.” She tilts her head toward the garage.
Bellamy's mouth quirks up at one corner, but her eyes stay locked on mine. “Noted.”
Lola shifts between us, pinning me with a flat stare. “I’m watching you, Calloway.”
“Are you now,” I muse. My gaze drifts over Bellamy’s face and the new freckle I don’t remember seeing before. It’s right on the curve of her upper lip. It makes my mouth water.
Or, fuck, maybe that’s justher.
“Ugh.” Lola’s eyes roll back so hard I can practically hear them. She shoves the pink boxes higher against her chest, grabs Beck by the sleeve, and disappears around the corner, toward the side door of the garage.
Then it’s just the two of us. Her gaze drags over me like inventory—boots, jeans, arms, throat. I push off the wall, unfolding to my full height, watching her pupils dilate slightly in the fading light. No point pretending I don’t enjoy it.
Her teeth catch her bottom lip, leaving the flesh there pink and damp.
