My throat goes tight. "And?"
"And I'm wondering how he's reacting, knowing how naughty you've been." He pauses, letting the words hang. "All the nasty stuff you've been doing must be a shock to your old man."
Every muscle in my body freezes, and he takes advantage of that silence. "Oh…" He whistles through his teeth. "He doesn't know yet, does he?"
I speak slowly so I don't scream. "You don't know anything."
"Oh, please," he says, laughing under his breath. "Half the town saw him leaving your place. You think people won't talk? You think your dad won't find out? Actually…" His voice drops, sharper now. "I'd love to meet him. Introduce myself. Tell him exactly what kind of mess you're dragging his grandson into."
My pulse hits my throat. "Don't you dare."
"Why not?" he asks. "You think you can play games and I won't react? You blow me off, you run around with some older guy?—"
"That's none of your business."
"You made it my business when you climbed into my bed and then acted brand-new," he snaps. "Don't forget how small this town is. People talk. I can talk too."
My knees weaken. Heat floods my face, not embarrassment this time, but real anger. "If you show up at my dad's door," I say, "I swear I'll?—"
He cuts me off. "Relax. I'm just saying it'd be a shame if he heard it from someone else first."
A pause opens on the line, long enough for me to hear the shift in him. His tone gets snarkier and mimics the kind men use when they think they've found the soft spot they can press. My grip on the phone tightens and my shoulder blades pull in. He keeps talking, like he's turning a key he thinks he owns. I move to the counter because standing still suddenly feels impossible. My fingers tap once, then curl into a fist. He's waiting for panic or guilt or whatever he thinks will spill out of me if he pushes just a little harder.
He's not getting it.
I lift the phone, steady my voice, and cut him off clean. "We're done talking."
"You sure?" he asks quietly. "Because the next call I make might not be to you."
I hang up before I say something I can't take back and toss the phone onto the couch like it burned me. My heart pounds hard enough that I hear it in my ears. I press both hands to my face and try to breathe. For months, I told myself that casual with Tom was harmless. A warm body. A distraction. A man who'd never actually matter.
Now he's threatening to drag Gabe into this, and worse, weaponize it against my dad.
I move to the hallway on instinct, stopping at Jace's bedroom door. He's asleep, soft breaths steady. Nothing in his world has changed. I pull the door almost closed again and rest my forehead against the frame.
"Think," I whisper to myself.
But all I can hear is Tom's voice, and all I can see is my dad's face if he heard it from someone who wanted to hurt me. My hands shake as I open Gabe's contact. I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
17
GABE
Working from a rental has never rattled me. I've hit deadlines in desert tents lit by red-lens headlamps, scribbled intel reports inside rattling cargo planes, even ran ops from busted safe houses where the only chair was a crate of ammo. But this place? This quiet, off-brand corporate apartment with its beige carpet and faint smell of cleaning chemicals? Tonight it's a cage, because my head's still back at Lena's. I know the town is gossiping, and I could tell that it was getting to her, tied to the brave face she wore even though her voice kept catching. I know the subtle flinch of someone bracing for a hit, the way a soldier's shoulders twitch before mortars fall, and she had that same nervous tension coiling beneath her skin. Seeing her like that, knowing the town is chewing at her because of me, because of what we did, because of the way I look at her in public—it's a load-bearing guilt I can't shrug.
I try to keep my eyes on the laptop, stare at the rows of numbers I'm supposed to reconcile, but the figures bleed. Letters smear. All I can see is her small living room this morning, the soft blanket thrown over her knees, the way crew members of the rumor mill smile with their teeth but not their eyes. For a manwho has clocked in hundreds of hours in the field, who can compartmentalize carnage and focus, this dizziness feels like a sucker punch.
I drag my palms over my face, push the laptop aside, and sit back hard. The borrowed chair squeals in protest. My muscles knot at the base of my skull from hours of driving and from holding my expression in check while I told her I'd handle it, that no one messes with my people. Pretending to be calm is harder than running live-fire drills. My fingers brush my dog tags under the open collar of my shirt, seeking some talismanic weight, but all they give is cold metal against hot skin. The heat follows a path down, coiling low, heavier with each slow breath.
My phone lies face-down near my elbow. Habit makes me flip it over. Her thread fills the screen before I even unlock the damn thing, because I've never been disciplined about closing it. The last thing she sent sits at the top, but I don't start there. I scroll back, past today, past the logistical check-ins, down to the raw stuff she sent while we were still breath-deep in each other's words. I hover over the one that undoes me.Holy fuck, Gabe. I just came so hard.
I set the phone balanced on my thigh, angle it so the lines shine like encrypted intel. My right hand slides automatically to my fly, knuckles grazing the brass buckle I've had since I was twenty-one. When I palm myself through the fabric, the aching weight that never really left since I walked out of her house surges to the surface. I unzip slowly, like dismantling a weapon. My cock presses forward with the kind of insistence that makes me grit my teeth. My fingers wrap around the base, dragging upward in a measured stroke. The first tug pulls a deep grunt from my chest, thick and guttural, rattling the quiet room.
If she were here now, I'd have her on my lap, staring deep into her eyes while she rode me. My grip tightens, strokes slow, just a little rough. I skim my thumb over the head and hiss through clenched teeth. "Christ, baby," I rasp under my breath, letting the words roll out. "You had me ready to bust through the steering wheel all the way back."
I shift, feet planted wide, knees sprawled around the chair, pushing into the rhythm. I read her message again, letting each syllable sink in like coordinates. She typed that she'd come hard. I picture it: Lena sprawled on that couch, tank top bunched under her bra, nipples sharp, shorts dangling from one ankle because she couldn't be bothered to kick them off entirely. Her fingers down between her thighs, knuckles shining. Her hair fanned over a cushion. Her voice breaking into those breathy little whimpers that wreck me.
My pace matches the imagined tempo of her hand moving across her clit. I drag my palm from base to tip, twisting over the sensitive ridge, thick precum coating my skin, slicking the glide. "Fuck," I groan, feeling the word vibrate along my throat.
