My hands settle at her waist, thumbs pressing into the familiar curve. Her breath hitches, sharp enough that I feel it through thin cotton, and her body eases back into mine, spine aligning without thought. I press my forehead to her temple, mouth brushing warm skin.
"You're doing that thing," she murmurs.
"What thing?"
"Standing as though you're about to drag me somewhere."
I smile against her skin. "I could."
She tilts her head, giving me access. "You won't."
"That's the problem."
The kiss isn't polite. It's still controlled, still restrained, but deeper, making my intent clear. My thumbs trace a dangerous arc at her waist, and she inhales. Sharp. Electric.
I murmur against her mouth, letting the words settle into her skin instead of her head. "You don't owe anyone anything today."
She exhales into the kiss. Her fingers curl into my shirt, knuckles pressing hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
"I know." Softer, a challenge: "Still."
"Still," I agree, and it costs me to pull back.
We move through the house. I grab the keys off the counter. She bends for her gym bag near the island, and the angle puts her hip right where my hand wants to be. I crowd her space before she straightens, palm grazing her hip, thumb catching her waistband. She swats halfheartedly.
"Knox."
"You started it."
"I picked up a bag."
"Exactly."
Outside, the morning air cuts through denim and leather. I shrug my cut on and she steps in close as we move to the bike. I fit her helmet on, fingers tugging the strap snug, knuckles grazing her jaw. She tips her chin into the touch before catching herself.
When she settles behind me, her fingers hook into my belt loop and tug once. The pull runs straight through me. My hand drops to her thigh and I squeeze once. Firm. Possessive.
We ride in a steady rhythm. The engine vibrates, there's light traffic, her weight shifts with mine, matched to the same center of gravity. She leans into turns, trust absolute, and I adjust without thinking. My palm finds her thigh at every stop, warm through her leggings, thumb pressing hard enough to register.
At the compound, a couple prospects linger near the gate with coffee, nodding as we pass. I swing off and lift her helmet free. My hand finds her waist and I help her down, lingering a beat longer than necessary.
"You good?"
She lifts her chin. "I'm here."
That's enough. The clubhouse door swings open, and I brace for the usual overlapping noise. Instead, it's quiet. Too quiet. We cross the main room, and that's when I see it: the war room door is cracked. Pastel light glows from inside. Something in the back of my skull goes cold. Calculated.
Sloane clocks it a half-beat later. Her hand finds my arm, squeezes once, lets go. Her face goes smooth. She knows. She's trying not to show it.
I push the door wide.
There are pink tablecloths pulled tight over the long table, edges squared with hospital precision. Fake flowers in mason jars at every seat. Peonies, roses, baby's breath, arranged with the kind of care that says someone consulted Pinterest. Tea lights flicker between them, casting the room in a warm glow that makes the tactical maps on the wall look as though they belong at brunch. Strips of lace are draped along the chairbacks, tied in bows. A Boss Babe mug is planted dead center, filled with fresh pens and a single artificial daisy.
But the kill shot is the whiteboard. Where Malachi usually tracks operations, someone has taped a vision board. Magazine clippings of sunsets and motivational quotes layered over each other with manic commitment. "MANIFEST YOUR BEST LIFE" in glitter letters across the top. A photo of a golden retriever glued next to "GOALS."
I freeze. Malachi steps up beside me. The silence coming off him could strip paint.
"What the fuck."
