“You’ll try.I’ll respond.Act surprised later if you want.”
“You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“That ship sailed.I already signed on the line.Paperwork’s done.Let me draw you a picture.”
I tell him everything from the second I walked into the tattoo parlor and saw the carnage.I tell him how the fear hit, then the panic, then the helpless fury, how I flipped between blaming him and grieving him, and how I tore through Sitka, street by street, dock by dock, screaming their names.I tell him how I cracked, how I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and how my world imploded.Then it shattered again when I found his computer equipment, the videos, all the reasons I strapped on a bomb and pulled him out of hell.
“I know the cost, Jag, because I already paid it.”
“I’m sorry.”He bows his head to my shoulder, breath stuttering, grief heavy in his voice.“So damn sorry.”
I don’t want his apology.I want his commitment.
Rotors chop the wet air as a shape breaks through the green ceiling of the rainforest.I stand at the edge of the helipad, my bare toes curling against the painted ring and my stomach writhing with nerves.
Humidity slicks my skin, damp and sticky, heavy with the promise of rain.I’m standing in the steamy bowels of a jungle, so sweat is a given.
Twelve days.That’s how long I’ve been inside the cartel’s citadel.
From the pad, the fortress looks unreal.White marble and glass rise out of endless green.Bulletproof panes wrap the exterior.Cameras dot the eaves.Motion sensors click in places I can’t see.
Nothing here is decorative.Iris scanners, hidden shutters, war rooms… This isn’t a home pretending to be safe.It’s safety pretending to be a home.A vault wearing silk gloves.
And somehow, it hasn’t been terrible.
That thought still surprises me.
The cartel is terrifying the way storms are terrifying.Vast, organized, and indifferent to anything in their path.But the twenty-two in the inner circle?They’re something else.Dangerous, yes.Also watchful, protective, and affectionate in a silent-but-deadly way.
They’re a family that has meals together.Laughter that comes fast and loud.Arguments that end with hands on shoulders and knives put away.
They took me in without asking me to cower or pretend.They made room and made me feel safe.
Safe.
Not a word I expected to associate with a cartel.They’ve kept their secrets from me, but I’ve put together enough to see the truth.They’re far more complex than the villains they want the world to believe they are.
If I’m honest, really honest, I like it here.A lot.
The only thing missing is Wolf.And Jag’s constant vigilance.
The helicopter drops lower, and the wind whips my hair loose from its braid.The pad vibrates under my feet, and my nerves skitter, excitement and relief tangling in my chest.My heart thunders as the skids kiss the concrete and the engine begins to wind down.
The doors swing open.
Jag steps out first, all lean muscle and dark violence, his eyes mapping exits and angles before landing on me.
I shiver beneath the familiar, over-protective inquisition of his gaze as he scans me head to toe.
Wolf hops down next, bright as a flare, holding a bottle of vodka.One of Kody’s special reserves, no doubt.
Black eyeliner rings his arctic blue eyes.Denim cut-offs ride low on his hips, and a black leather corset cinches him tight.Over it, a sheer white lace robe floats and snaps in the rotor wash, brushing against daisy-printed rain boots that have no business being that cute on a cartel helipad.
He scans the pad, one quick pass, and his eyes lock on me.
The smile is instant.
It lifts his cheeks and tunnels straight through my ribs, electrocuting and melting everything inside me.
