The room smells like clean rubber, sweat, and effort.Monty’s facing away from me, headphones on, shirt off, skin slick with heat, forearms corded as he grips the bar.He’s on the bench, pushing through a set like he’s negotiating with pain and winning.
When he locks out and racks the bar, his chest rises fast.His throat works as he swallows.He sits up, drags a towel across his face, reaches for his water bottle—and that’s when he finally notices me.
He turns his head.
One look at my face and his whole body changes.
He pulls one earbud out.“What happened?”His voice is rough, still coated in sleep and exertion.Then, without missing a beat, like it’s the only question that matters, “Who upset you?”
“I got a call,” I say.
“A call?”He frowns and curses under his breath.“We’re fucked, aren’t we?”
ChapterForty-Eight
Callaway
“Fucked is relative ...”I rake a hand through my hair, and it does nothing to calm the buzzing under my skin.“Kline.My parents’ attorney.”
Monty’s jaw tightens.His eyes go flat in that way that makes my insides go both warm and cold—warm because I know he’ll protect us, cold because I know what he’s capable of when he decides someone is a threat.
“But I want to tell you and Ves at the same time,” I add, and my voice dips, because the next part matters.“They mentioned her.They mentioned the baby.”
Monty rises from the bench in one smooth motion, controlled but immediate.No wasted movement.No questions that don’t matter.The bench squeaks and it’s the loudest sound in the room.
He steps closer, towel in hand, water bottle forgotten.“What else?”
“They’ve been digging,” I say, and even saying it makes my jaw ache.“They want me to get rid of my ‘indiscretions.’They’re threatening to out us, destroy my career.They want me in New York in seventy-two hours.And they said?—”
My throat goes tight—not in some pretty, poetic way.In a furious, ugly way.In a “don’t you fucking dare” way.
“They said she’s not suitable,” I finish.“They said the baby needs to be ...resolved.”
Monty’s face doesn’t change much.That’s the most terrifying thing about him.The reaction is contained, but I can see it anyway, like a door closing somewhere deep.
He reaches for my wrist—firm grip, not tender—and checks my pulse with his thumb like he’s grounding himself through me.
“Let’s go upstairs and wake her up,” he says.“We’ll do it gently.”
He snags his shirt from the floor, pulls it on without hurry, and in that small act I see what he’s doing—collecting himself.Putting a barrier between his rage and our soft girl.
We move through the hallway together, silent.At the top of the stairs, Monty slows like he’s entering sacred ground.
Outside the bedroom, I pause.After taking a deep breath, my hand touches the doorknob.I turn it quietly, like we’re breaking into our own life.
The room is dark—blackout curtains sealing out time, sealing out certainty.No hint of morning.No clue if it’s early or late.Just the bed, the dim outline of Vesper curled in the middle like she’s made herself small without meaning to.
She’s wearing my shirt.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and brush my knuckles along her cheek.Her skin is warm.Real.Alive.
“Hey,” I whisper.“Sunshine, morning.”
She makes a tiny sound, half annoyed, half soft, and her eyes blink open into the dark.
“What time is it?”she mumbles, voice rough with sleep.Then—because she’s Vesper and she cannot wake up without attitude—she adds, “Did we buy a bunker?Because I’m not emotionally prepared to live in a sensory deprivation tank.”
Monty’s mouth twitches.My heart does something stupid.
