“They need you at Christian’s place,” Doyle tells him. “Flynn said to come now.”
Kaden nods, already grabbing his keys. “You ladies good?”
“We’re perfect,” Viviana answers for both of us, voice warm.
Kaden’s gaze lingers on me for a second, then he’s gone, boots thundering, engine roaring away into the night.
Doyle turns back, softer now. “Flynn asked me to take you to the mansion.”
My stomach flips in the sweetest way. “He did?”
“Yeah.” Doyle shrugs, cheeks pink again. “Something about celebrating… and wanting privacy.”
Heat floods my face. Oh my God. I can practically feel Viviana’s smirk without looking.
“Okay,” I laugh, breathless. “Let me grab my bag.”
I bounded upstairs, heart fluttering like a teenager. It’s over. Really over. Flanagan is done, the Russians are handled, and Flynn is alive and waiting for me.
I snatch my camera off the nightstand, slide it into my bag, phone tucked into my back pocket. One last look in the mirror: cheeks flushed, eyes bright, alive.
I practically skip down the stairs. “Ready.”
Doyle nods and leads the way out. I pause to hug Viviana tight.
“Thank you for holding me together,” I whisper.
“Always, love you,” she whispers back, squeezing once more.
The night air is cool, smells like pine and freedom. I slide into the passenger seat of Doyle’s BMW, bag on my lap, seatbelt clicking.
He pulls smoothly through the gates and onto the dark road.
“So no one was hurt?” I ask, turning to him.
“No,” he says quietly, eyes on the windshield. “They’re all fine.”
“And you?” I lean forward a little, trying to catch his gaze. “Are you okay?”
He blinks, surprised. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” I smile, gentle. “Tonight was intense.”
For a second the car is silent except for the soft hum of the engine.
Then his voice drops, rougher, darker, nothing like he was five minutes ago.
“Fuck, Autumn.”
My heart stumbles.
The smile freezes on my face.
He doesn’t look at me. Just tightens his hands on the wheel until the leather creaks, and something cold, something horribly familiar, slides down my spine.
“You’ve always been like this,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “Sweet. Caring. Even to a fucked-up nobody who stuttered when he tried to say hello.” His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
My stomach flips. “I… I barely know you, Doyle. What are you talking about?”
