“I just don’t understand why all the violence. Can you just do your job without all of this? That’s why you see danger everywhere. Because you participate in it.”
“Coco. When a logistics organization like the Duvalls collapses, everyone connected to it scatters. We’ve dealt with the murder of my father, secret alliances, and vying for use of terminals and shipping lanes. There absolutely is danger. And I’m mitigating it, protecting you, making sure you don’t get caught up in all of this. But the danger is real.”
My jaw locks without warning, a familiar pressure setting in behind my eyes. The same place it hit the night I found my father’s blood on the floor.
The pressure deepens when I look at her, because I know exactly how this started.
She shifts, propping herself up on her elbow so she can see my face. “You sure it wasn’t a little jealousy there, too, Mr. Stone?”
A corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “Maybe.” I meet her eyes, my tone softening. “For a minute, I thought you might be there with someone else. It was stupid. But seeing you like that, dressed the way you were, surrounded by strangers, shaking your ass on the dance floor…”
She gently touches my cheek. I shake my head once. “It got under my skin.”
Her smile flickers, but something more serious settles behind it. “My father confronted me about us, Ridge. He said his men saw you at my house last night.”
My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice level. “What did he say?”
Fuck. This is exactly what we were trying to avoid. I never should have gone over there.
“That you’re dangerous. That I should stay away from you.” Her fingers brush over my chest, light but unsteady. “He has someone watching me. For my protection, supposedly. But it’s really just to keep tabs on me.”
I curse silently. I should have known better. Maybe part of me wanted it exposed. Wanted the line crossed so I could stop pretending this wasn’t inevitable. Hearing it out loud fills me with regret anyway, because now she’s boxed in. I’m surprised he even let her out tonight.
“I’m sorry you’re in this position,” I say quietly. “No one should control you like that. Not your father. Not anyone.”
She exhales and settles back against me. “He’s scared for me. I get it. But it’s suffocating.”
My hand keeps moving over her back, slow and steady. When she speaks again, the question is careful.
“What happened with the Duvalls, Ridge?” A pause. “Did you do something yourself?”
The tension in her voice is unmistakable. I know she’s trying to reconcile the man she’s curled up with now and the version she’s heard about from her father and the streets.
“Yeah,” I say after a beat. “I did.”
She waits, and I know silence won’t cut it.
“They took my father from me, Coco.” My voice hardens, not toward her, but at the memory. “They tortured him and left him to die like he was nothing. I couldn’t let that go. Not for him. Not for the company. Not for the thousands of people whose livelihoods depend on what we built staying intact.”
Her fingers curl slightly against my chest, but she doesn’t pull away. “You could’ve had someone else do it.”
“I know.” I stare at the ceiling, my jaw set. “But it wouldn’t have carried the same weight. When you’re in my position, you don’t get the luxury of ambiguity. That’s how this works.”
Her hand lifts to my face, her thumb brushing along my jaw. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
I turn my head to look at her, caught off guard by the gentleness in her voice. “I’m not.” The words come out firm. “I’d do it again if it meant keeping everyone safe. Keeping you safe.”
Her eyes shine with something I can’t name, but it tightens my chest all the same. “Ridge?—”
I cut her off, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep,” I murmur. “We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.”
She nods and relaxes against me, her breathing evening out. The simulated lights overhead begin to brighten slightly, signaling morning’s approach. For now, though, it’s just us, wrapped in the quiet we carved out for ourselves.
The heavy doorscreak as I push them open. Vin and Wells are already inside, seated at the long table scattered with documents and printed manifests.
Wells’s laptop hums faintly, the screen filled with spreadsheets and timelines. Both men look up when I enter. There’s a tension in the room that wasn’t here yesterday.
“Let’s start with Duvall,” I say, taking the seat at the head of the table. “I want to understand what’s left, and what exposure we still have.”
