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“That much? Really? She better watch out or she’ll get an ass on her.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to kick myself. I have no right to say shit like that. “Sorry. That was⁠—”

“Rude. But I get it. She’s too thin. She needs”—Winnie looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. When she meets my gaze, her eyes are glassy and sad. “Tru needs to heal. To talk to a therapist, work through everything that happened to her. She needs to get away from here. Be somewhere safe for a change.”

Ouch.

The words hurt, but that doesn’t discount the truth in them. And if I’m honest, those are all things I want for Truie too. I probably need to bring it up again when she’s not naked in my arms. Half naked, I completed the job after offering her a therapist. I blame my disgruntled balls for fumbling that.

I turn and continue on, retracing her steps. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The scoff behind me isn’t subtle, and neither is the muttered, “Asshole.” But what stops me in my tracks is when Winnie adds, “She’s stronger than she remembers. She deserves revenge for the things she lived through, that’s hers to take.”

I face Truie’s best friend, the woman who has tended and cared for her since she’s been back. “She got her revenge when she shot the miserable piece of shit who stole her away. What she needs to find now is peace. Because with peace, comes power and that is what Truie needs full ownership of.”

Winnie is silent as I close the distance between me and the object of my… What is she? My focus? Absolutely. A distraction? That too, but she’s more. Always more for me.

Before I press my palm to the scanner, I count to five, schooling my features, relaxing my shoulders. A handful of rounds of controlled breathing would be great, too, but I don’t want to take the time. I need to see her, to see for myself that she ate that whole bowl of soup, that she’s here, and safe, and whole—as whole as she can be.

The mechanism hums, granting me access, and there she is. Tucked into the corner of the chair, the fire crackling, and a bright red throw blanket held firmly in her hands.

“Hey. You get to spend some time with Winnie?” Sure I know the answer, but it’s a question Truie can answer in a myriad of ways, and how she responds will tell me so much more than the answer itself.

Her eyes turn in my direction before her head pivots, but they’re bright, open. Almost in the neighborhood of happy.

“I did.” She takes her time with each of the two simple words, and the result is spectacular. No stuttering. No tripping.

I rest my hand lightly on her shoulder, contact but not intrusively so, and take in the empty bowl but full plate.

“Looks like the soup was good today. Didn’t like the sandwich?” According to Winnie, it’s one of Truie’s favorites—grilled turkey and cheese on sourdough.

The shoulder beneath my hand rises, barely. The movement is so slight, I might not have noticed if my hand wasn’t right there.

I feel useless.

My skills for fixing shit seem to be lacking when it comes to Truie Cochonette.

Sometimes it just clicks and I know exactly what to do, what to say. And then there’s moments like this, where I stumble over myself and everything feels like the wrong thing.

“Is there something different you’d like?” Because I will deliver no matter what her request. I have no problem sending Garrick out for whatever might put a smile on Truie’s face.

“I…” The implied never mind is nothing more than a shake of her head, platinum curls bouncing free as she rolls her lips between her teeth.

“Do you need time to think? Or are you afraid to ask?” I round the back of the sofa, pulling my suit coat off and depositing it on the back of a straight uncomfortable chair before settling in next to Truie.

The grilled sandwich is cold now, but I’m starving and not about to let it go to waste. With the plate balanced on my thigh, I shove half the sandwich in my mouth and chew. The action makes it less obvious that I’m going to sit in silence and let Truie answer my question. Sometimes, it takes longer for her to work out what she wants to say and whether she really wants to say it or not.

Sometimes it’s like she’s shocked by her surroundings and seeing me throws her off.

But the silence isn’t awkward. It never is with us which is weird for me. With anyone else, any other time, silence would feel oppressive and I’d have to fight the overwhelming need to fill it.

My phone vibrates in my pocket once, then twice, then a flurry of messages bombard me, shaking the plate that teeters precariously on top of it.

Obviously, I need to see what the hell is so urgent, but when Truie makes another attempt to tell me what she wants, nothing else matters.

“I want”—a pause full of determination—“something sweet.” No stutter. A drawn-out S in sweet, but discounting that, she asked for something. Truie fucking asked for something, and now I will move Heaven and Earth to get whatever she wants.

“You want one of your smoothies? Candy? Ice cream? Gelato? Some cake?” Each offering of a sweet treat is punctuated with another rattle of the plate. Much as I want to give her my complete focus, I have got to see whose world is imploding.

I set the plate back on the table and pull my phone from my pocket, thumbing the screen to life. Notification after notification after mother-fucking notification is stacked on the screen and every single one of them are from Christophe or Eddie. The last one turns my blood to ice.