21. Chapter Twenty-one #4
He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other wrapped tightly around mine, his grip unrelenting, almost too much. I don’t ask what happened. I don’t need to.
I’ve seen this version of him before.
It’s not anger.
It’s containment.
He pulls into the compound. Nods once to the guards at the gate. Doesn’t say a word until we’re in the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. Just the two of us, surrounded by mirrors and silence.
I watch him through the reflection. His jaw is tight. His eyes, unreadable.
I reach for him. He lets me.
I slide my arms around his middle and rest my cheek against his chest. He exhales then, sharp and shallow, like he’s just remembered he can.
He doesn’t speak.
He just lowers his head until it rests on mine, and we stay like that all the way up.
He undresses me slowly when we get back to the bedroom, not like before. There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just… care. His fingers brush my collarbone. My shoulders. He peels my dress off like it might break.
I undress him too.
I don’t rush.
Because whatever just happened out there whatever he did or saw or decided it’s clinging to him like a second skin.
When we crawl into bed, he pulls me close.
Closer than usual.
His arm locks around my waist, his hand spread across my stomach. He pulls the blanket over us like we’re hiding from something.
And maybe we are.
I press a soft kiss to his chest. “You gonna tell me what happened?”
His body goes still.
Then a beat passes.
“No.”
I nod against him. “Okay.”
Because I know him. I know how much it costs him to say even that.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “If you ever want to talk.”
He doesn’t answer.
But his arm tightens.
And his breath hitches.
I can’t see his face, but I feel it, how hard he’s holding onto me. Like I’m the only thing in the world not slipping away from him.
Later, in the dark, when I think he’s asleep, I trace the scar on his side with my fingers.
He catches my wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop me.
His voice is a whisper in the dark, broken and low.
“They were following you.”
I freeze.
He says nothing else. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t tell me what he did or who he found.
Just that.
They were following you.
I turn in his arms, heart thudding painfully, and look up at him in the dark. His eyes are open. Watching me.
I want to ask more. Want to press.
But I don’t.
Instead, I reach up and cup his face, my thumb brushing his cheekbone.
“You found them?” I whisper.
He nods.
“And?”
“They won’t try again.”
I swallow hard.
“Good,” I say softly.
And it is. It should be.
But something cold settles under my skin.
Because I know what it means when Kane says things like that.
I know what he had to do.
And even though I don’t flinch…Even though I don’t pull away…Part of me wonders how long I can live like this.
Loved by a man the world is right to fear.
Held by hands that destroy and protect in the same breath.
I press my lips to his and whisper, “I’m still here.”
Because I am.
But for the first time, I wonder if I always will be.
***
Kane
The air inside the war room is stale with tension and sweat.
It’s not a room meant for comfort, cold concrete walls, a long matte-black table, bulletproof glass on one side, steel blinds drawn against the heat. The kind of space where no one speaks unless I say so. Where silence isn’t stillness, it’s control.
I’ve been here all fucking day.
Javi’s at my left, scrolling through surveillance footage. Joaquin leans against the far wall, arms crossed, that permanent scowl on his face. Diego came and went two hours ago, he knows when to step back and let me handle what’s mine.
Because this? This isn’t a cartel issue.
This is personal.
A man named Márquez is sitting across from me now, sweaty, overdressed, and smiling too easily. He’s old blood, old money, the kind of dealer who likes his vices imported, his money laundered through casinos, and his women terrified.
I don’t trust him.
I never have.
But he’s offering me information and right now, I’m hungry for it.
“Word is you’re expanding,” he says in a syrupy voice, tapping his gold ring against the rim of a short glass. “The Rivera name’s getting loud again. Feels like old days.”
“I’m not interested in noise,” I say flatly. “I’m interested in ownership.”
Márquez chuckles. “Still so poetic.”
I don’t smile.
He shifts slightly, leaning forward. “There’s a new player moving weight through your coast. Quiet. Smart. Flesh and fentanyl. Mostly Eastern Bloc girls, some cartel pipeline crossover. He’s got a casino front opening in Little Haiti next month.”
“Name?”
“Goes by Rojas. But I’m guessing that’s not what’s got you watching your perimeter lately.”
I narrow my eyes. “You offering gossip or intel?”
He meets my gaze, grin fading slightly. “I’m offering leverage. One of my sources says your girl’s been marked.”
My chest tightens. Just slightly.
I don’t move.
Don’t flinch.
“Go on.”
“She’s been followed. Documented. Someone’s testing your lines. Seeing how far they can push before you bite back.”
“Someone already has,” I say coldly. “And I’m still chewing.”
Javi slides a file across the table. I flip it open with one hand.
Surveillance shots. New ones.
Camille at the compound gate. At Diego’s. At the fucking BBQ.
Long-lens. Night-vision.
Too fucking close. Too deliberate.
And then my eyes land on it, the one that makes my blood burn ice-cold and acidic.
Camille.
Barefoot, dress twisted from her dancing, hips rolling sensually between Reina and Marisol, hair tangled and wild with carefree laughter. Beautiful. Free. Reckless. And behind her, half-obscured in shadow, I’m there. Watching her. Guarding her.
The bastard who took this was watching me too.
My jaw locks violently. Every muscle coils, straining beneath the savage urge to find him, drag him from the shadows, and end him slowly, painfully. I slide the photo across the table, each movement deliberately controlled, my voice lethal in its quiet command.
“Who’s your source?”
Márquez lifts his hands carefully, cautious.
Smart enough to sense how close I am to snapping.
“I don’t give names. But this I know: Rojas isn’t some new asshole from the block.
He’s a transplant. Serbian, moved through Eastern Europe and Dubai before he hit Miami.
Bought three warehouses, two massage parlors, and a whole strip of prime real estate off Biscayne in the last eight months alone.
Quiet. Careful. Loaded. And he’s been sniffing around Rivera territory like he thinks he has a fucking claim. ”
“He doesn’t.”
Márquez’s eyes narrow slightly. “He’s watching your girl like he thinks she belongs to him.”
The room goes silent.
Lethal.
Javi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Joaquin’s posture stiffens, arms crossing tighter, muscles visibly tensing. Rage simmers just beneath his calm exterior.
And me?
I smile.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Unhinged.
“Then he’s a dead man.”
I lean forward slowly, elbows braced against the table, every muscle vibrating like a blade against stone. Márquez watches me warily, cautious respect darkening his expression. Good. He fucking should.
“Find me everything,” I murmur quietly, calmly…too calmly. “I want his history, his blood type, the name of every woman he’s ever fucked, every enemy he’s ever made. I want the addresses, the schedules, the fucking coffee shops he visits. If Rojas breathes, I want to know about it.”
Márquez gives a tight nod, rising quickly. He understands exactly how close he stands to the fire. “Consider it done.”
The door shuts behind him, but the silence stays thick, charged.
Javi clears his throat carefully, voice low. “You know this is a trap. He’s baiting you.”
I smile faintly, my gaze still locked on that damn photo, Camille’s carefree laughter a stark contrast to the violent possessiveness coiling deep inside me. “I know.”
Joaquin’s stare is sharp, assessing. “Then what’s the play?”
My thumb traces the edge of Camille’s image, imagining her pulse racing beneath my fingertips. The thought of anyone else imagining they have the right to touch her, to watch her, to breathe her in, makes me fucking murderous.
“We give him exactly what he wants,” I say softly, dangerously. “He thinks he can use her to draw me out? Good. He’ll get his wish. But he’s going to choke on it.”
Javi’s eyes narrow. “Risky.”
My smile turns darker, colder, utterly ruthless. “He started this game, but I’ll end it. By the time I’m done with Rojas, no one else will dare look twice at what’s mine.”
Joaquin nods slowly, approval and something darker flickering briefly behind his carefully masked gaze. “Then we let him come closer.”
“Exactly.” My voice drops lower, raw with quiet, unrestrained threat. “Because when he does, I’ll chop his head off.”
Camille
It starts out slow, the kind of lazy afternoon you only steal when you're desperate, stillness you don't deserve, softness borrowed from somewhere safer, brighter, kinder.
Kane’s head rests against my thigh, his eyes closed, lips parted slightly like he’s between thoughts. His hand rests on my bare calf, thumb brushing mindlessly over my skin. He’s not asleep, just… still. Unwound. A rarity. His whole body seems heavier like gravity’s pressing him into me on purpose.
I thread my fingers through his damp hair, freshly washed and curling slightly at the ends. His scent lingers, leather and bergamot, heat and something uniquely him. I don’t know how a man like this smells like violence and comfort at the same time.
The book in my other hand is open, pages soft beneath my thumb, but I haven’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.
Not with the weight of what I’ve been holding.
“Kane?”
“Mmm?”
His eyes don’t open, but the hand on my leg stills.
I hesitate.
“Are they still watching me?”
His lashes lift then. Just slightly. Enough to look at me without sitting up. His eyes are unreadable, dark, slow, assessing.