His green eyes flash as they lock onto mine.
“See something you like, baby?” he murmurs, his voice dipping, turning warm, teasing, like he’s deliberately shifting the air between us, pulling me out of my head and back into him.
He takes a slow step toward me, then another, closing the distance with unhurried confidence, his presence filling the space until it’s all I can feel.
“Because I have to tell you…” he continues, lowering his voice further, “you can have it whenever, however you like.”
The words settle into me, and for a moment, just a moment, the noise in my head quiets, the fear dulling at the edges as something warmer takes its place. I smile at him as I slip my hands into the waistband at the back of his sweatpants, tugging him closer, rising onto my tiptoes as I seal my lips to his, grounding myself in the familiarity of him, in the quiet reassurance he always seems to offer without needing words.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his mouth, the words soft, almost fragile, but carrying everything I can’t quite say out loud.
Something in his eyes tells me he understands exactly what I’m thanking him for, and that understanding settles deep, wrapping around the cracks inside me.
He steps back, a wicked grin tugging at his lips before his palm comes down in a sharp slap against my backside, the sudden sting pulling a startled breath from me.
“Put some clothes on, Mrs. Baker,” he says lightly, amusement threading through his tone. “I’ll put the coffee on.”
He winks, then turns and strolls out of the room, completely unapologetic in his half-dressed state, leaving behind a trail of confidence that lingers long after he’s gone.
I shake my head, a small, disbelieving smile pulling at my lips as I cross the closet, reaching for a long black maxi dress and slipping it on, letting the soft fabric fall over my skin like armor I’m not entirely sure will hold.
A few minutes later, teeth brushed and the basics taken care of, I pause for a moment, drawing in a steadying breath before stepping out, lifting my chin as I force my shoulders back.
Every gaze in the room shifts to me the moment I step into the living area, the attention so immediate and unified that it feels almost tangible, as though I’ve crossed an invisible threshold into something already unfolding, something heavy with intent.
I hadn’t expected this many people.
The suite is expansive, all clean lines and quiet luxury, but it’s the table at its center that dominates the space—a long slab of dark, polished wood that could seat twelve comfortably, its surface gleaming beneath the soft wash of morning light spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It isn’t a table meant for casual conversation; it’s built for decisions, for control, for power.
“Good morning.”
My attention shifts to Niko, who stands near the glass as though the city beyond it belongs to him rather than the other way around. He is impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that fits him with precise intention, a crisp white shirt beneath with the top button undone just enough to suggest ease without ever compromising control. His blonde hair is slicked neatly back, sharp blue eyes observant and calculating, while heavygold rings catch the light as he lifts his coffee. When he speaks, his Russian accent wraps around the words in a way that feels both smooth and dangerous, lending even a simple greeting an edge of authority.
“Good morning, Niko,” I reply, my voice steady as I move further into the room, instinctively drawn to Trey.
He is leaning back against the edge of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, because I know him well enough to see the tension threaded through the lines of his body, the awareness in the way his gaze finds me the second I enter. He straightens slightly as I approach, handing me a coffee without a word before sliding his arm around my waist.
I offer a small smile to Mac, Logan, and Sam, who are spread across the large sectional sofa, each of them nursing coffees.
Near the door, Chace stands with two of Niko’s men, speaking in rapid Russian, the language flowing from him with a fluency I have never heard before, and it catches me off guard enough that I find myself watching him, studying the ease of it, the way something in him shifts—sharpens.
I know who he is. Or who he was… Chace. But he’s something more now. His face set too serious, too still.
I watched him in that basement… the one where my nightmare lives. There’s something in him… a force, something dangerous, coiled tight beneath the surface.
I don’t know how to feel around him. Not scared… not exactly. But on edge. Like my body knows to be careful when he is like this.
His real name is Valentino.
I know what he comes from.
But hearing it like this makes something settle into place with a clarity that is impossible to ignore, because there is no hesitation in him, no searching for words, only instinct.
Suddenly, the unspoken understanding between him and Trey—the way they communicate with nothing more than a glance—feels deeper than I ever realized. Has Trey always known this side of him? Or does he trust him so deeply it doesn’t change anything at all? Maybe it’s the same for all of them.
I glance around. No one looks surprised. No one looks afraid.
Chace glances over his shoulder mid-sentence, his gaze landing on me where I stand beside Trey, and without breaking stride, he lifts a hand, cutting off the conversation with a quiet authority that does not need to be enforced.
