The air in the kitchen shimmers with a nearly physical charge; the constant, low static of collective adrenaline everyone is fighting right now.
Bishop’s breathing has gone shallow and tight. I watch his hands. For all the shit he talks, those are the hands of a surgeon—steady, precise, always in control. I wonder if they’d shake at all if I asked him to touch me.
Gage’s hand finds my lower back. I let my weight lean into him for a split-second before the moment snaps back.
“Everyone ready?” Coco asks from the corner of the kitchen, but it’s not a question.
Gage grins beside me. “Born ready, Ma.”
Cruz raises his mug. “I second that.”
Rafe’s lips curl up at the edges, but his eyes are pinned to me. There’s a thousand things buried in those blue-gray depths.
I nod at him. I’m ready. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s the way all my choices have folded down to this one perfect point, but the anticipation feels clean, like oxygen after a thunderstorm. I’m not scared. Not even a little.
Coco’s gaze flicks over us. “Alright. Don’t embarrass me, boys.” She winks, but her mouth doesn’t smile. “I’ll see you all tonight.”
Coco steps back, chin lifting slightly. One by one, the guys move past her, each pausing to press their lips to her cheek. Rafe lingers a half-second longer, murmuring something that makes her jaw tighten. The kitchen air carries hints of gunmetal and coffee grounds; the scent wrapping around us like a promise we can't take back.
Beck’s fingers drum against his thigh. “I'll call out any irregularities in traffic cams?—”
I rest my hand on his forearm. “Hey, we’ll be fine. And you’re gonna retag the chips in record time.”
“Yeah, little bro. We believe in you. Don’t let Bishop get in your head, okay?” Lola says, leaning her head against his bicep as she side-hugs him.
He drags his hand through his hair. and expels a breath. “Yeah, okay.”
Cruz leans on the horn of the construction truck, the sound cutting through the pre-dawn air. “Clock's ticking!” he shouts, one boot already up on the running board, keys jangling between his fingers.
Beck nods at us, then turns to jog toward Cruz’s car for the day. Lola and I cross to our sedan—navy blue, forgettable, plates that belong to someone three counties over. My vision sharpens, peripheral details fading. The weight of the gun on my hip. The cold metal of the car door handle. My heartbeat slowing, steady as a metronome. I inhale, hold it, like standing at the edge of a high cliff with nothing but air below.
Rafe catches my wrist as I turn away. His fingers circle the bone, warm against my skin. My pulse skips beneath his grip. He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his aftershave—sandalwood and something metallic.
The pendant light catches in his eyes, turning them slate. His breath fans against my cheek, then my lips. The brush of his mouth against mine lasts half a second, maybe less. His thumb slides up to the hollow of my throat, pressing lightly against the flutter there.
“See you on the other side, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough at the edges.
My heartbeat stutters, then races like I've been shocked. Heat blooms across my skin—first my lips, then spreading down my neck, pooling low in my belly. I open my mouth, but he's already turning away, his fingers slipping from my wrist like smoke.
I slide into the driver's seat. My ass barely hit the seat before Lola's eyes go wide, her jaw dropping as she stares at me. “What the actual fuck, Bells?” Her whisper has teeth.
I reach for the door handle, but fingers wrap around the edge.
Gage leans into the gap, his breath fogging the cold air between us. “To our second job together.”
When his mouth presses against mine, his lips are soft, but his stubble scrapes my chin. My body responds with a slow burn, like embers catching rather than the lightning strike that Rafe ignited. Gage's kiss is deliberate, a steady promise, while my skin still tingles from the ghost of Rafe's touch—a memory that shouldn't feel so raw when another man's breath is warming my lips.
His forehead presses against mine, three heartbeats when two would've been goodbye. “Be safe.”
I nod, throat tight. “You too.”
Bishop's voice cuts through the air. “Move.” His knuckles whiten around his phone. “Now.”
Metal clinks against metal. Car doors slam shut. Motors growl to life. Three vehicles peel away in the same direction, swallowed by the middle-of-the-night shadows.
Lola's eyes are fixed on me as I patch into the conference call, her lips pressed together like she's physically holding back words. The moment I hit mute, her eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly touch her hairline. She extends her palm across the center console, fingers splayed, a wicked grin spreading across her face. The dashboard lights catch the gleam in her eyes.
I swat her hand away, my cheeks burning hot enough to feel it in my ears. “Don't.”
