But he doesn’t laugh this time. The teasing drains from his face, replaced by something sharper. His smile falters, and he studies me—really studies me. I can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, the moment he remembers that this isn’t one of our usual disasters. This is real. Dangerous.
“Mare. What’s the plan now?”
I blink. “Plan?”
“You know,” he says quietly, scooting closer until our knees touch. “The wholebeing-hunted-by-mobstersthing? You can’t just vibe your way through that, Mare.”
I laugh under my breath, hollow and small. “I don’t know, Jas. I guess I just… survive one day at a time.”
He exhales, shaky. For a second, I think he’s going to make a joke, but instead, he pulls me into a hug—hard and sudden, like he’s holding me together by force. I feel him sniff against my shoulder, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “I hate this for you.”
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “Really.”
He pulls back, eyes glassy. “You’re not.”
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But Anton—he won’t let me die. Not while he’s breathing.”
That does it. Jasper looks both terrified and grudgingly impressed.
“Jesus, Mare. You’re in love with a human bulletproof vest.”
My eyes snap up. Love? The word hits harder than it should. I don’t even know what this is—whatever strange gravity pulls me toward Anton like I don’t have a choice. It’s not normal. It’s not safe. But it’s real.
“I—” I start, then stop. “I don’t know.”
He studies me, and something softens in his expression. “Then maybe don’t figure it out tonight. Just—stay alive long enough to decide later, okay?”
I nod.
He releases a shaky breath, then tries to lighten the air. “So, what else has this man of mystery done besides ruining your sleep schedule?”
I huff out a breath. “He’s… done things, Jas. Dangerous things. He—” My throat tightens. “He broke Evan’s fingers.”
Jasper blinks. “What?”
“Because Evan cornered me. Tried to—” I stop, can’t finish. “Anton found me. Pulled him off. I think Evan’s hand still doesn’t bend right.”
For a second, Jasper’s face goes through all five stages of gay grief at once—shock, horror, awe, and finally, pure chaos.
He slaps both hands to his cheeks, eyes wide. “Serves that dickhead right.”
“Jasper—”
“No, I mean it.” He points at me, indignant. “That walking thumb had it coming since the day he wore cargo shorts to dinner and called thembusiness casual.”
Despite everything, a shaky laugh slips out of me.
And maybe that’s why he does it—because he sees that laugh. That tiny crack of light. Something shifts in his face; the worry hardens into resolve.
He straightens. “Okay. Enough crying. If I can’t protect you from the Bratva, I can at least make sure you walk into that gala tomorrow like you own the damn mob.”
“Oh no,” I mutter. “What are you doing?”
He’s already pacing, fingers snapping like he’s summoning divine inspiration.
“We’re done playing scared, Mary. This is the rebrand. The resurrection arc. The glow-up heard ‘round The Strip.”
“Jas—”
