“What?” Cruz backs into the hallway, hands raised. “First you want me to call her gorgeous, and now I can’t be hospitable?”
Their voices fade down the hall as Rafe herds them out.
I slide off the counter. In the mirror, a stranger stares back—familiar features arranged in unfamiliar ways. Blood still crusts near my hairline. Rust stains the bed of my thumbnail.
My chest tightens. Not from the crash. Not from the pain.
From this house. These brothers. The way their voices echo down the hall, deep and tangled together.
I press my palm against the counter’s edge until it bites into my skin, anchoring me to something solid while everything else shifts.
The bathroom light flickers once, casting shadows across unfamiliar walls. My fingers grip the edge of the counter as something settles in my chest—not fear exactly.
Anticipation.
SIX
RAFE
The slidingdoor whispers shut behind us. Coco doesn’t look up. She sits at the patio table with one leg crossed over the other, the ice in her whiskey catching the low light as she rotates the glass between manicured fingers.
“Gage and Cruz all patched up?” The ice in her glass clicks against crystal as she lifts it. Her eyes track from Bishop to me, lingering just long enough to make it clear she’s assessing, not asking.
“They’re fine.” The gauze and antiseptic are still sharp in my nose, Gage’s split knuckles and Cruz’s temple wound cleaned but throbbing.
Bishop’s hand wraps around the back of the empty chair opposite her, knuckles whitening. I plant myself beside him, arms locked across my chest. The pool pump hums. Salt air mixes with chlorine.
“Good.” Coco’s lips curve around her glass. “And Bellamy?” Her voice shifts on the name—subtle, but there—like she’s testing the weight of a new weapon.
Bishop’s voice cuts through the silence. “ She’s with Gage.”
Coco’s lips curve as she rotates her glass. Ice clinks against crystal. Her gaze lingers on Bishop’s face, measuring something only she can see. “Don’t forget to keep an eye on them. Head injuries aren’t something you half-manage.”
Bishop’s jaw muscle pulses once. Twice. “Gage knows what he’s doing.”
I shift my weight, boot heel scraping concrete. If anything happens, I’m ten steps away.
Coco’s eyebrow lifts a fraction. She takes another slow sip, throat working as she swallows.
I press my shoulders against the cool stucco, watching. Waiting. The night air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Bishop and Coco stare at each other across the table—a chess match where neither player wants to reveal their next move.
That same highway adrenaline still hums in my blood. Quieter now, but present. A whisper at the base of my skull.
The pool filter kicks on with a mechanical groan. Chlorine mingles with salt air. No one speaks.
“Your brother’s filled me in,” Coco says finally, her voice honey-smooth as her gaze pins me in place. “But I’d like your take on today.”
Bishop’s knuckles bleach white against the chair back.
I shrug. “Whatever Bishop said happened, happened.”
Her brows rise. A low hum vibrates in her throat. “Maybe I should ask Cruz then? He’s always soforthcomingwith me.”
The night air stills. Crickets pause mid-chirp. Even the pool water seems to freeze.
I plant my boot against the wall behind me, knee jutting out. “Ask him. What I want to know is: Who gave you the job?”
Coco swirls her drink. Five seconds pass. Ten. Fifteen. Her eyes never leave mine.
