His lips skim just below my ear.
My pulse jumps.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be strong.”
He turns me slowly until I’m facing him.
“Being strong doesn’t mean pretending you don’t feel it.”
His fingers trace along my jaw, careful, as if he’s afraid the wrong pressure will break me.
My breath stutters.
He leans closer.
Our lips hover inches apart.
I can feel the restraint humming through his body, the control he wears like armor.
And the hunger under it.
Then the roar of helicopter blades slices through the night.
I pull back, startled.
He smiles faintly.
“That’s ours.”
“Ours?”
“I called in a favor.”
The yacht docks beside a private helipad. The helicopter waits there, rotors already turning. A pilot stands nearby, expression neutral in the way people look when they’ve learned not to ask questions.
“This is insane,” I say.
Diablo takes my hand again, firm and warm. “Get in.”
Moments later we’re rising above Miami.
The city spreads beneath us like a glowing circuit board. South Beach curves in a bright crescent. The Atlantic stretches black and endless beyond.
Diablo sits close enough that our thighs touch.
Through the headset he speaks quietly, voice low like it’s meant for my bones.
“Saints control this city. I thought it would matter.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t.”
I glance at him.
