I blink, sure I misheard him. "What?"
"I’m sorry," he repeats, his slate-blue eyes locking onto mine. "For taking the choice away. For drugging you. For taking the dog."
"We thought we were playing the game," Marcus adds, his voice unusually serious. "We thought you’d chase us. We didn't realize..." He trails off, running a hand through his wet hair. "We didn't realize you were running because you were hurting."
"We messed up," Damon says. He takes a step toward me, but stops when I stiffen. "We shouldn't have taken Skipper. We know she’s all you have. We’ve been taking care of her. She’s safe. She’s happy but she misses you."
My throat burns. "Where is she?"
"We have a safehouse," Andre tells me. "She’s warm, fed and waiting for you."
"If you want her," Marcus adds quickly. "If you want to come get her, I mean. There’s no strings, no traps. You come get the dog, and if you want to leave... you leave. We won't stop you."
I stare at them. This isn't the script. The script says they chase and I run but they’re standing in the rain, apologizing. They’re giving me an out and I don’t understand.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "I stole from you. I played you."
"You woke us up," Marcus says simply. He looks at me, really looks at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth and then back upto my eyes and I wish I wasn’t dressed as Martha right now. "We’ve been sleepwalking for a long time, Demi. Surviving, but not living. Then we crashed into you on Halloween and... the lights came on."
My body betrays me. My core clenches at the look in his eyes, a sudden, sharp ache of desire that cuts through the anger. I remember his hands on me. I remember how he cleaned me up after. I remember thinking, for just a second, that I could stay.
"We aren't here to stop you from hitting Thorne," Andre says, shifting gears. "We figured she’s your target and we've done some of our own research. We know she’s a fortress. And we know you’re sitting in a van in the industrial district trying to figure out how to do this job without getting caught."
I narrow my eyes. "I have a plan."
"You have a death wish," Damon counters, though there’s no bite in it. "Thorne’s security is ex-military. You go in there alone, you don't come out."
"We can help," Marcus says. "We want to help. Not for a cut. Not for the money. For you."
"Why?" I ask again, louder this time. "Why would you help me destroy a billionaire for free?"
Andre looks at his brothers, then back at me. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a ghost of that smirk I remember.
"Because she hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to a growl that vibrates in my bones. "And nobody hurts what’s ours."
Ours.
The word hangs in the rainy air, heavy and possessive and terrifying. "I'm not yours," I whisper, though even to my own ears, it sounds like a lie.
"Prove it," Damon challenges softly. "Come get the dog. Walk away. Prove us wrong."
I look at the tracker sitting on the hood of the car. It’s a peace offering, an olive branch for us to reset, restart and maybe… try.I look at the three of them soaked, tired and looking at me like I’m the only source of heat in the world and hesitate. I should run. I should turn around, get in a cab, and disappear but the thought of the empty van, the silence, the cold... it’s unbearable.
And they have my dog.
I take a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs. I walk over to the SUV, snatch the tracker off the hood, and shove it into my pocket.
"If this is a trap," I say, looking Andre dead in the eye, "I will burn your house down with you inside it."
Andre’s smirk widens, real this time. "I’d expect nothing less, baby." He opens the back door of the SUV. "After you."
Chapter 5 – Blue
The ride across the Bay Bridge is silent, but it’s not the empty, lonely silence of the van. It’s a heavy, pressurized silence, like the air inside a diving bell. Andre drives with one hand on the wheel, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on me every thirty seconds. Damon is in the passenger seat, tapping a restless rhythm on his thigh, and Marcus sits next to me in the back, close enough that I can feel his body heat but careful not to touch me. We pull up to a nondescript bungalow in the Oakland Hills. It’s a nice average house with clean lines, a privacy fence and a porch light glowing warm against the rain.
"She’s inside," Andre tells me, killing the engine. "Door code is 1225."
Christmas. Of course.
