“Stay.”
He stops. Turns back.
“Stay,” I say again. Quieter this time.
He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. Just strips down to his boxers, climbs into bed behind me. His chest is warm against my back, his arm settling heavy across my waist, and I feel the last of the tension drain out of my body like someone pulled the plug.
I lie there listening to his breathing slow, to the rain on the windows, to the quiet of Nina’s house settling around us.
This is getting easier. Being with him like this—not just the sex but the after. The staying. The part where I let someone hold me and actually want them there instead of just tolerating it.
With the three of us, there’s scaffolding. Nina between us, softening the intensity, making it safe. But this—just Wyatt, just his mouth, just his hands—this was the test I didn’t know I was taking. And I didn’t fail it.
Somewhere underneath the calm, quiet but unmistakable: the thought that next time, I might want to give back. My hands on Wyatt. My mouth on him, my cock inside him. The idea doesn’t trigger the same sick dread it used to. Maybe what happened with Vicente didn’t ruin this part of me permanently—just buried it under years of shame and fear.
Not tonight. Tonight I just take what Wyatt gave and let it be enough.
But maybe soon.
I’m almost asleep when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I ease out from under Wyatt’s arm, check the screen. Work email—Walsh, following up on the briefing.
Update on Marcano: additional credit card activity confirmed. Hotel in Culver City, checked in Nov 7, checked out Nov 10. Working on surveillance footage from the property but it’s a long shot. Will advise.
Culver City. Ten minutes from Nina’s house.
Rafael was staying that close to Nina’s neighborhood the same week she started treating Vicente and Arturo. And we still don’t know what he looks like.
I set the phone down. Wyatt shifts in his sleep, reaches for me. I let him pull me back.
Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. I walk into Vicente’s compound carrying five years of trauma I can’t outrun, while somewhere in this city, a ghost named Rafael Marcano is circling.
I don’t know which threat scares me more.
38
Nina
The Flores compound announces itself before we even reach the gate—pale stucco walls visible through a corridor of palms, elegant Spanish Revival archways catching the afternoon light. I’ve seen photos, heard descriptions from Callie, but nothing prepared me for the scale of it. This isn’t a house. It’s a small kingdom carved into the Los Feliz hills.
Chris’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as we pull up to the security checkpoint.
He hasn’t said much since we left my place. Neither has Wyatt, who’s been tracking our surroundings from the passenger seat with that quiet vigilance he gets when he’s working. I’m in the back, conserving energy. Six days post-op and I’m functional, but my body reminds me with every speed bump that it’s still healing.
A guard approaches—young, professional, armed—and Chris rolls down his window.
“Dr. Palmer and guests,” he says. His voice is steady. Nothing in it betrays the fact that he spent several years of his life inside places like this, playing a role that nearly destroyed him. “We’re expected.”
The guard checks a tablet, nods, and waves us through.
The driveway curves downward through acacia trees and birds of paradise, everything lush and perfectly placed to suggest nature rather than the army of gardeners it must require. Lucia and Darius are already here—I spot them near the garage, chatting with one of Arturo’s regular security staff. They arrived an hour ago, posing as friends of Ben and Baz who’d agreed to provide extra coverage for the event. With Arturo’s daughters all in attendance and Drake Stavros on the guest list, additional security didn’t raise any eyebrows.
“There’s a helipad,” Wyatt observes, nodding toward a flat expanse visible beyond the main structure. “Drake’s group hasn’t arrived yet.”
“The twins are with them?”
“Should be. We’ll want to loop them in on the threat intel—they ran security for Flores before they went to work for Drake. Know this compound better than anyone.”
Chris nods once, jaw tight.
