“Baking at 2 AM is a cry for help with butter.”
I snort, the sound catching somewhere between a laugh and a breath. For a second, it actually helps—Jasper’s jokes always do. Then it hits again, that low thrum of worry sitting just under my ribs. It crawls back in before I can shove it down.
“I’m just thinking about Grandma,” I admit, voice low. “If something happens tonight… she’s alone.”
Jasper’s expression softens, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“You trust your little mafia gangbang to keep you safe, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t call them that.”
“What then? Your Russian boy band?” He raises a brow. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. But seriously, if you need me there, I’ll show up. Bulletproof vest, dramatic entrance, the whole thing.”
I smile, faint but real. “What would you even do? Throw yourself in front of a bullet?”
“Absolutely not. I bruise easily. I’d just make a scene. Distract them with sequins.”
That gets another laugh out of me, but it fades quickly. Because the truth is, Idotrust them.
It doesn’t make sense. I’ve spent most of my life not trusting anyone; not my father, not ex-boyfriends who made promises like loose change, not bosses who smiled while twisting knives. Trust was a luxury people like me couldn’t afford. But then camethem.
Lev, who flirts with danger like it’s an Olympic sport but always stands in front of me first. Boris, who hides kindness under that dry, soulless tech-guy exterior. Dima, silent as a ghost, but the only person who’s ever made me feel safe walking through a dark hallway. And Anton… God. Anton, who terrifies everyone but somehow makes me feel less breakable.
I don’t even know when it happened; when fear stopped being the loudest thing in the room. Somewhere between the guns, the blood, the threats, they became the first people I didn’t have to question.
I blink hard, staring at the mirror. “Yeah,” I say finally, voice softer than I mean it to be. “I trust them.”
Jasper hums, skeptical but quiet. “That’s a first.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m just saying. You trusting people who carry guns for a living feels like… character development.”
He pushes off the counter and comes closer, expression softening. His hands land lightly on my shoulders, and for a second, the noise in my head goes still. He leans down, presses a quick kiss to my forehead, and lingers there.
“I see the changes in you, Mary Catherine Sullivan.”
I let out a small laugh, though it sounds tired. “That sounds suspiciously like a eulogy.”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s just… I’ve known you half your life. You don’t risk things. You don’t even jaywalk. Now look at you—heading into a ballroom full of men who could make a person disappear faster than my last ex.”
I tilt my head, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “You mean you’re not worried for me at all?”
“Oh, I’mterrifiedfor you,” he says dryly. “But I’m also kind of impressed. You’re finally doing something that scares the hell out of you. I just wish it didn’t involve possible gunfire.”
That pulls a smile from me, soft and shaky. “Feels on brand, though.”
He huffs. “Yeah. Your new aesthetic: bullets and blush.”
I breathe out, the air catching in my throat, half laugh, half exhale.
“Mary…” His voice drops, the camp gone now. “If this Caleb thing feels wrong, you walk. I don’t care who’s watching. I’ll come pick you up myself. I’ll commandeer a helicopter. I’ll bribe a valet. I’ll cause a five-alarm fire if I have to. And I’ll fake your medical emergency.”
I smile at the reflection, shaky but genuine. “What would you even say? That I’m having a mascara allergy?”
“That you’re allergic to bullshit.”
That earns a real laugh from me, quiet but grounding. “You’re dramatic.”
