The war starts tonight, but for right now, I just need to get him home.
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Chapter 31
Zoë
Gio's car idles at the curb, a sleek, dark predator in the morning light. He's leaning against the driver's door, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the entrance of my dorm like it personally offended him. The man looks like he hasn't slept, which makes two of us.
I walk down the steps, ignoring the way his eyes track my every movement. I pull the door handle and slide into the passenger seat. The moment the door clicks shut, he pushes off the car and slides behind the wheel. The air inside is heavy, smelling like leather and his cologne. He shoves the key into the ignition and tears the gearshift into drive with more force than necessary.
"You didn't stay," he says, his voice rough, scraping against the quiet of the cabin.
"I have a roommate," I say, staring straight ahead at the pavement. "And a life."
"I was cold," he grumbles, peeling away from the curb with a jerk that presses me back into the seat. "The bed is too big without you."
My patience snaps. I turn to him, my eyes slicing into his profile. "You literally went to a party to fuck another girl," I say, my voice flat and sharp. "You don't get to complain about where I sleep."
"I wouldn't have fucked her," he snaps, his eyes flashing. "I was pissed because you walked away."
"Was that your way of throwing a temper tantrum?" I ask, my voice dripping with mock sympathy. "And now you're pouting because the timeout didn't work?"
Gio flinches, his jaw ticking as he grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He stares at the road, a muscle jumping in his temple. He slams on the brakes at a red light, the car screeching to a halt. He turns to me then, his eyes wild and desperate, the bear with a sore tooth finally baring its teeth.
"I'm clawing my way back to you," he bites out. "There's a difference."
The light turns green, and he accelerates, the engine growling as he eats up the asphalt. His hand drifts off the steering wheel, fingers seeking mine on the center console. I pull my hand away and place it firmly on my own knee.
"Focus on the road, Gio," I say, staring out the window at the blur of trees.
"I'm trying to apologize," he counters, his voice low and frustrated. He tries again, his palm landing on my thigh, heavy and hot. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I went to that party. I'm sorry I acted like a dick."
I catch his wrist. Clean. Controlled. My fingers close around the bones and tendons like I'm checking a pulse. I lift hishand off my thigh and set it back on the steering wheel with a deliberate press, my palm flattening there for one beat longer than necessary.
"Drive," I say, quiet and final.
His breath stutters like I punched him. He looks at the road harder, knuckles whitening under my hand. I release him before it can turn into anything that feels like comfort.
"Apologies require behavior change, Gio," I say, voice even. "Not a confession after you get caught."
He lets out a ragged breath, his grip tightening on the leather steering wheel until it creaks. His jaw ticks, a sharp, rhythmic spasm that betrays the control he's fighting to keep. He keeps flicking his eyes from the road to my legs, dark and hungry, like he's starving and I'm the only meal in sight.
"I had my hands on her, but I was looking at you the whole time," he says, the words ground out through gritted teeth. "I just wanted you to fucking look at me."
"It worked," I say, turning to look at him. "You got a reaction. Now you're mad that the reaction wasn't me crawling back to you."
"I want you to look at me like I'm your ally," he snaps, glancing over at me.
"Then stop acting like an enemy," I say.
He falls silent, the air in the car thick with unsaid words and the hum of the engine. He doesn't reach for me again, but I can feel him vibrating with the effort to stay in his lane. He wants to fast-forward to the forgiven part, to skip over the groveling and get straight to the part where I'm back in his bed. I'm the detour he's going to have to take if he wants to survive this.
Elm House is a bunker. Gio kills the engine in the driveway, and the silence that follows is heavy, loaded with the kind of anticipation that usually precedes a storm. We walk in, and the air shifts. The living room has been gutted of its usual debris—nored cups, no stray sneakers. It's been reconfigured into a tactical operations center. Laptops are open, screens glowing with code and draft articles. The coffee table is a war zone of cables and empty mugs.
The place is packed. Genny is on the couch, typing so fast her fingers are a blur. Maya is in the armchair, phone pressed to her ear, her voice low and sharp as she negotiates something with a source. Adrian and Declan are pacing the length of the room, their movements synchronized, restless energy radiating off them in waves. Dante and Cole are stationed by the window, arms crossed, eyes on the street like they're expecting a SWAT team to breach the perimeter at any second. Talia and Clara are at the kitchen island, surrounded by a spread of printed documents and highlighters, heads bent together in low, urgent consultation.
They're locking shields. For him.
