"Of course it works," Marcus grins, leaning over to steal the last piece of bread from the basket. "We’re pros."
I side eye him with a scoff then spend the next hour refining the timeline. We synchronize watches. We establish code words. Red wine means abort. Champagne means the coast is clear. Truffle means Thorne is on the move. Andre slides over a small velvet box that has a heart shaped jeweled broach with a camouflaged camera and microphone in it and an ear cuff that is actually a covert earpiece we will use for coms.
We move around the kitchen island like pieces of a single machine. I finish Damon’s sentences about the encryption protocols. Marcus anticipates my question about Thorne’s vanity and answers it before I ask. Andre hands me a pen the second I reach for one.
The air in the room crackles with it. It’s not just professional cohesion, it’s a synergy so potent it feels like foreplay. The way our minds mesh, the way we fill each other’s gaps, it’s intimate in a way that sex never could be. It’s the narrative of a perfect con, the gravity of the job pulling us into a tight, unbreakable orbit.
I take a minute to study them. Marcus is flushed with the thrill of the game. Damon is calm and competent, his focus absolute and Andre is the anchor, holding it all together.
And me, I’m the center. We fit, Marcus had said.
He was right. We fit so well it hurts and that’s when the panic hits me again. It starts in my chest, a cold, expanding bubble of terror. This isn't a team I can walk away from. This isn't a job I can finish and forget. If I do this with them, if I let myself sink into this warm, perfect dynamic, I will never be able to go back to the cold. And I have to go back to the cold. The cold is safe. The cold doesn't leave you because it’s always there.
If I stay, I’ll get soft. I’ll start relying on them. And then, inevitably, something will happen. Thorne will win. One of them will get hurt. Or they’ll realize I’m just a broken girl with a grudge and they’ll move on to the next shiny thing. I can’t survive that loss. I survived my mom because I had rage. I won't survive losing them because I’ll have nothing left. This, this is too fucking dangerous for a girl like me. The way they’re making me feel things is dangerous.
"Demi?" Andre’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. "You with us?"
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the wall for a solid minute.
"I..." My voice comes out a croak. I clear my throat. "I need air."
"We can open a window," Damon says, moving toward the latch.
"No," I say, too loud, too sharp. I stand up, my chair screeching against the floor. "No. I mean... I need to go."
The three of them freeze. The electric synergy in the room shatters, replaced by a sudden, confused tension.
"Go where?" Marcus asks slowly.
"To the van," I say, grabbing my bag. "I need to check on Betty. I need to... I left some files there. Important ones."
"We can drive you," Andre says, stepping forward with a knowing expression. "Or we can go get them."
"No!" I back away, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I need to go alone. I need to sleep there tonight."
"In the parking structure?" Damon asks, his brows knitting together. "Blue, it’s forty degrees out. We have a fireplace. We have beds."
"It’s not about the bed!" I snap. "I just... I can't be here."
My eyes dart around the room at the warmth, the food, the safety and it feels like a cage. A beautiful, velvet-lined cage that will strip me of my survival instincts.
"I need to stay sharp," I lie, my voice trembling. "This is too comfortable. I’m losing my edge. If I’m going to face Thorne, I need to be hungry. I need to be cold." I snatch up the papers I’ll need and the velvet box and then whistle for Skipper. The little dog pops her head up from the rug, looking from me to the fire, clearly reluctant.
"Skipper, let’s go," I command, my tone brooking no argument.
She sighs, a heavy, dramatic exhale, but she trots over to me. I scoop her up, clutching her like a shield.
"Blue… Demi," Andre says, his voice low and warning. "Don't do this. You don't have to run to be strong."
"Yes, I do," I whisper. "That’s the only way I know how to be strong."
I turn and head for the door before they can stop me, before they can say something that makes me stay.
"I’ll be at the drop point on the 13th," I call out over my shoulder, my hand on the doorknob. "Stick to the plan."
I walk out into the San Francisco mist, the door clicking shut behind me, cutting off the warmth, the light, and the three menwho make me want things I can't afford and the pressure on my chest eases slightly. The Uber ride to the parking structure is a blur. When I finally climb into the back of Betty, the metal is freezing. I can see my breath in the air but it’s mine and it grounds me. I wrap myself in three blankets, pulling Skipper into the nest with me. She shivers, burrowing into my armpit.
"I know, Skip," I whisper into the darkness. "I’m sorry. But this is better. This is safe."
