“I love you,” he says, voice shaking.
Still dizzy, I manage, “I love you too,” and there’s no sarcasm this time, no anger, only the thick, aching truth of it.
I can’t tell if the warmth on my face is tears or sweat. Maybe both.
He brushes my hair off my forehead, tender now. “You okay, princess?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m perfect.”
We lie there for a long time, his arms around me, my cheek to his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
Eventually, he props himself up and looks down at me—really looks, searching for something in my face.
“What?” I ask, stroking the line of ink over his heart.
“You terrify me,” he repeats, but there’s a smile in it now. “And I’d do anything to keep you.”
I close my hand over his heart and press, just enough for him to feel it. “Don’t ever doubt me again.”
“I won’t,” he promises, voice rough.
I believe him.
41
JACE
Parker’s living room has been transformed into a makeshift war room—her coffee table covered in laptops, tablets, files spread across the couch, empty coffee mugs forming a small collection on the side table. We’ve been at this for three hours, going through quarterly reports, analyzing territory disputes, building the intelligence brief Charles needs for his meeting with the other families next week.
It’s boring as hell.
But it’s also comfortable in a way I didn’t expect. Parker curled up on one end of the couch in leggings and an oversized sweater, her hair in a messy bun, glasses perched on her nose as she frowns at her laptop screen. Me on the other end, feet propped on the coffee table, working through security assessments while trying not to get distracted by the way she bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating.
Charles is out with Cal and Silas—meeting with some of the old guard, smoothing over territorial concerns, doing the political dance that keeps the organization running smoothly. Whichmeans I’m here, technically working from Parker’s place instead of headquarters.
Technically being the operative word.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Parker mutters, squinting at her screen. “The Ramirez numbers show a fifteen percent increase in revenue, but their expense reports are flat. Either they’re cooking the books or they’ve found some miracle efficiency I need to know about.”
“Probably cooking the books,” I say without looking up from my tablet. “Maria’s smart, but she’s also creative with accounting when it suits her.”
“Should I flag it for Charles?”
“Yeah. He’ll want to address it before it becomes a problem.”
She makes a note, her fingers flying across the keyboard. I watch her work for a moment—the way her brow furrows, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the way she’s completely in her element analyzing data and building strategy.
She’s good at this. Better than she probably realizes. The organization is lucky to have her, even if she didn’t choose this life.
My phone buzzes. A text from Cal.
Meeting running long. Won’t be back until after lunch. You good?
Fine. Working from Parker’s.
Working. Sure. That’s what we’re calling it now.
Fuck off.
