Long time no see.
Friends. Acquaintances. Former colleagues. People who barely know me but smell opportunity, obligation, or both. Some want to help. Some want favors. Some just want to be seen doing the right thing. I scroll, detached, already numb to it. Until I see her name: Marianne Hall.
No subject line. Just her name, neat and composed, sitting there like it owns the space. My pulse skips. I click.
Jenna,
I'm so sorry to hear what happened. I want to help if I can. Would you be open to meeting?
—Marianne
That's it. No explanation. No reassurance. No performance. Interesting. Either Marianne doesn't know I still have access—which feels wildly unlikely given her position—or she does know, and she chose not to shut it down. I don't know which possibility unsettles me more. Still, I don't hesitate.
Yes. When and where?
The reply comes almost immediately, like she'd been waiting.
I can come to the Sovereign, if that's easiest for you.
Of course she can. She is free to roam all over the place, unlike me, who has been confined to a cage at the mercy of a man who hates her. I have no idea what she wants from me. But I'm not about to shove an ally off the board before I know what side she's playing.
I crossthe penthouse with purpose, already sorting logistics in my head—passport, weapons, timing—I feel her before I see her. Her presence presses into my spine like a blade, familiar and infuriating. I didn't expect her to still be awake. I definitely didn't expect her to still be wearing my shirt. Like it has every encounter since she reappeared in my life, the sight of her hits me harder than it should, soft fabric hanging off her like she belongs here, like she never left. Like the last ten years didn't happen. Heat coils low in my body, sharp and unwanted, my cock hardens, a visceral response I don't give permission to. Fuck.
"Where are you going?" she demands.
I don't slow. "Out."
"What are you doing?"
Packing.
I keep moving because if I stop, if I turn too soon, I'll remember the kiss. The way her mouth fit mine like it never forgot. The way my body betrayed me before my mind could catch up. I'm angry at her. Angry because she kept my son from me. Angry because she made that choice without me. Angry because I want her.
That's the real problem.
Desire rises, hard and unwelcome, tightening my control like a vice. I hate it. Hate that she can still do this to me withouttrying. Hate that my body reacts before my reason does. I push into the bedroom and head straight for the closet. If I let myself look at her too long, I'll either rip the shirt off her or lose my temper entirely. Or both.
Neither option is acceptable.
"You're not answering me," she snaps, following.
I reach the back wall and open the false panel. The lock disengages with a muted click, and the wall slides aside. Her breath catches. I don't look at her. I don't need to.
"Oh my God," she says. "Are those—are those grenades?"
"Yes."
I start selecting what I need, methodically and in control. The weapons steady me. They always have. Tools don't lie. They don't provoke. They don't look at you like you're both salvation and sin.
"You're going to war," she wagers.
"I'm going to get my son."
I turn just enough to catch her reflection in the mirror. Bare legs. My shirt. The echo of something domestic I never allowed myself to want. It makes my jaw tighten.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, not desire this time, but restraint. She needs clothes. Armor that isn't me.
"I'll have Max take you shopping downstairs," my voice is sharp. "You need to change."
