Chapter Eleven-Remy
A Few Months Later
If I’d been in the country another twelve hours, maybe things would’ve gone differently.
Maybe I would’ve talked some sense into her.
Maybe I would’ve stayed in that too-small apartment, peeled her out of those bamboo sheets again, and made her admit what we both knew—that what happened between us wasn’t just some goddamn fling.
But the call came, and I had to go.
No time for long talks or long goodbyes.
Josef Aziz himself had pulled me in, tasking me with heading a detail for one of Sigma International’s highest-priority VIPs.
High-level, high-stakes, and halfway around the world.
The exact kind of test I’d been waiting for—one that would prove I had the chops to lead elite units the way I’d trained them.
And maybe, just maybe, it gave me the perfect excuse not to deal with the ache Andrea Ramirez left behind.
Still, even three months later, I haven’t stopped seeing her face.
Not once.
I close my eyes and there she is—chin tilted high like a goddamn queen, eyes cold and hard like she didn’t just spend the night clinging to me like I was the only thing anchoring her to this planet.
Like she hadn’t whispered my name like a prayer while I was buried inside her, shaking with the effort it took not to go for broke and tell her how much I wanted to fucking breed her right then and there.
Hell, I jerk off regularly to that very fucking thought. And yeah, I’m man enough to admit it.
Picturing Andy swollen with my baby? Biggest fucking turn on ever.
But then—like I meant nothing—she looked me in the eye and tore my dreams apart.
“This was fun. But we don’t have anything else to talk about.”
Bullshit.
We have everything to talk about.
Like how my hands still remember the feel of her hips when I held her down and made her take every inch of me.
Or how my mouth still waters when I think about how fucking sweet she tasted—every inch of her, like honey and sin and something that was always meant to be mine.
God. I wanted to keep her.
Not just fuck her.
Not just make her come until she couldn’t remember her name.
But fill her. Mark her. See her round with my kid. Watch her walk into a room wearing my name and a growing belly—our belly—and know the world would see her and know she was claimed.
Taken.
Mine.
This woman? She turns me into a fucking caveman.
A growling, possessive, unhinged bastard who wants to lay her out, split her open, and plant something so deep inside her, she’ll never be able to forget me even if she tries.
And believe me—she’s trying.
But I see the way she looked back that last time, just for a second, when she thought I couldn’t see. That hesitation in her step.
That flicker of fear—or maybe hope.
She wanted me too.
She still does. I just know it somehow.
And if she thinks I’m going to just let her walk around like she doesn’t belong to me—like she didn’t start something I damn well intend to finish—then Andrea Ramirez is in for a surprise.
Because I’m done waiting.
Done dreaming.
Done pretending this was just sex.
No. This was always more.
And if she thought that was the end?
She hasn’t seen anything yet.
I mean, I would've stayed and fought for it—fought for her—if she hadn’t slammed the damn door in my face and locked it behind me.
But I needed time to think. To process. To plan.
I have shit to do first, but I have every intention of revisiting our relationship—if it can be called that.
Meantime, I shut my laptop with a sigh, the echo of Callie’s sweet little voice still playing in the back of my mind.
We'd just finished a quick FaceTime call—her grinning up at me with chocolate on her cheeks and her hair in lopsided pigtails.
Mom had been behind her, smiling too tightly.
“Remy,” she’d said, once Callie ran off, “I found a beautiful retirement community. In Palm Beach. They’ve got a garden, art classes, and a shuttle to the grocery store. I’m thinking it’s time.”
I knew what she was really saying.
Time to stop sharing custody.
Time to take full responsibility.
Time to be a full-time father figure to a three-year-old who didn’t ask for any of this, but deserves the world anyway.
“I’ll be back this weekend,” I told her, jaw set. “It’s time. I’m ready.”
Mom nodded, eyes glinting a little. “I know you are, son. You’re going to be such a good father!”
I nod at her before signing off.
She’s right. I am ready.
I have to be.
For Callie. For myself. For the future.
I’ve seen enough men in this line of work pretend they can juggle it all—missions, women, ghosts—and it always ends the same.
I’m not going to be that guy. I’ve made my choice.
Family first.
No distractions.
No Andrea.
Not until we can talk. Really talk. About where we stand with each other. Where this thing is going.
Because yeah, I can handle it if a woman leaves me, but Callie deserves better.
I lean back in the too-small chair I’m sitting in, muscles tight, heart tighter.
Maybe this is a good thing.
Maybe the universe saved me from something messy.
From caring too much.
From becoming the kind of man who chases after a woman who already made her decision.
Maybe I just have to forget she exists.
Forget the curve of her waist.
The fire in her voice.
The way she moaned my name like it meant something.
Like I meant something.
Just forget.
I glance down at my hands.
They're still calloused from field work, still steady on a weapon or a trigger or a steering wheel at ninety miles an hour.
But if I close my eyes, I swear I can still feel the way she fit under them.
Forget her?
Yeah, right.
It might be easier to forget my own fucking name.