“Like ghost mode. No socials. No bank trails. No IDs updated since she was twenty-one. I’d bet money she left the city.”
“Can you find a photo?” My voice stays calm, but there's a thrum building beneath it, something cold and tight in the back of my throat.
“Hold on…” The pause drags too long. Not casual. Not careless. When he speaks again, there's a shift—something in his tone that puts me on edge. “Sending it now.”
The moment the photo hits my screen, I know. The rest of the room fades to static. No warning. No time to brace. Just a single frame that slams into me like a punch I didn’t see coming.
It’s her.
Even stripped down, no makeup, hair pulled away, a flat stare meant for bureaucracy—she’s unmistakable. The same cheekbones I traced with my fingers. The mouth I kissed until it bruised. And those eyes… Fuck, those eyes. I’ve seen them in every memory I can’t shake. In the red lights of the club. In the dark, when sleep won’t come. Staring up at me in Detroit.
And now I know her name.
Zara Kavanagh.
I stare at the ID photo on my screen, the details warping at the edges as my mind snaps backward through every missed sign. Every carefully placed half-truth. Every choice she made to stay just out of reach. The woman who left my bed before sunrise, who danced on my stage, who never gave me a straightanswer…she didn’t need to. Her name would’ve said everything. Lachlan Kavanagh’s daughter. My enemy’s legacy. Right under my roof.
She let me touch her. She let me claim her, for a night. She shared a meal with me in my goddamn home.
I end the call without a word. Place the phone down carefully, like anything faster might set off the kind of explosion I won’t be able to contain. My thoughts spiral.
Zara Kavanagh. Hiding in plain sight.
I should burn the bridge, shut the door, lock it, and make peace with never getting the answers I want. But I won’t. I know myself too well—I’m not walking away from her. Not when she made me crave something real. Not when the need still lives under my skin, when my body wants her more than my pride wants revenge.
Now the task sits heavy in my chest. I have to find her.
The soundof gloves hitting the bag echoes through the gym like a rhythm meant to break bones.
Lars doesn’t stop when I enter. His fists thud against the leather, knuckles sharp and fast, body angled with lethal precision. His hair’s tied back in a short knot, damp with sweat. He works in a controlled rhythm, every punch precise. Calculated violence disguised as routine.
When the final hit lands with a dull, satisfying thud, he steadies the bag before stepping back, breathing hard, and rips the gloves off. Once the gloves are gone, the color beneath is revealed. His nails are painted charcoal gray. Glossy. Immaculate.
Lars has always liked contrast. He’ll walk into a bloodbath wearing nail polish or loafers that cost more than some people’s cars, and no one ever questions it. Not when he can put someone through a wall without blinking.
He tosses the gloves to the bench and wipes down with a towel, never looking my way.
“Thought you’d be at the club,” he says, voice casual as he runs the towel over the back of his neck. “You usually like to lick your wounds surrounded by stilettos and dim lighting.”
“Something came up.”
“Judging by your expression, that ‘something’ has tits and still hasn’t been found.”
I don’t answer yet. He tosses the towel aside and turns, giving me his full attention for the first time. There’s dried blood along his jawline from last night’s hit. A souvenir from reminding the Kavanaghs we still own this city.
“How bad was it?” I ask.
“Controlled burn,” he says. “Two guards down. No bystanders. We left a message loud enough for Lachlan to lose sleep over.”
“Good,” I reply. “We’re going to need the distraction.”
Lars pauses, the smile fading. “Are you planning something bigger?”
I shake my head as we walk to the corner of the gym. I lean against the steel support beam and cross my arms. The weight of what I learned less than an hour ago sits heavy on my chest and I need to talk through the thoughts filling my head.
“She’s a Kavanagh.”
Lars stills, eyes narrowing. “Who?”
