Chapter 1
Denver
Why walk away when you can dive in headfirst instead?
I was almost out. Almost free of this endless fucking merry-go-round of death. Colt and I had a plan. That night is fuzzy, but I remember that. Him holding me, whispering promises against my lips.
A few years, and we’d be out. Maybe even faster than that, given that Alistair was ready to take over the Harland family. Once my businesses were sold, things would be easier. Freedom was so fucking close.
And now …
I’m the head of the McEwan family—a powerful family I have no business running.
My arm aches as I place the last glass in the dishwasher, and I squeeze my hand into a fist. The pain makes it hard to move around most days, but it was getting somewhat manageable.
Today, though, I’ve pushed my limit, and I ache.
I ache so bad I want to cry, but I can’t.
There’s no time, and it isn’t a safe enough space for me here. Not anymore.
Tears tickle my lashes as I grip the kitchen counter and close my eyes.
I can’t fucking do it.
I could run one half of the Luxe empire because Ranger backed me until he didn’t.
People here expect me to know what I’m doing, but I don’t have a fucking clue.
Alistair dislikes me and would sooner see me fail than offer a word of encouragement.
Everyone else assumes that I was born into this role and can do it with ease.
And Colt isn’t here to hold my fucking hand.
I’ve never felt more alone.
The sound of claws lazily tapping across the kitchen floor makes me turn. Wesson’s tail wags as I crouch and wrap my arms around him.
“Can you do it for me?” I mumble into his fur. “I bet you’d make a great mafia leader.”
A heavy sigh is his only response.
Footsteps approach. Ones I already know belong to Alistair. He walks everywhere with purpose, like every destination has the answers to his questions, and he has to get there before anybody else does.
I stand as he appears in the doorway. He glances up from his phone and has the look he always has when he sees me: annoyance that I live here.
He’s still in the suit he wore to the meeting, but the gunmetal gray tie is loose. His silver hair is swept back, similar-colored beard neatly trimmed as always, honey eyes always filled with frustration that teeters on the edge of rage. A rage he seems to stockpile for me.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” he says, keeping his voice relatively low.
We’re back at the safe house we’ve been using as home since the last place was destroyed, and Helena is only upstairs.
I doubt she’d hear us; she has her television on late into the night.
For company, I suppose, now that Finn is gone. My chest aches at the reminder.
“I’m going up soon,” I say. “How do you think it went?”
“As expected.”
He doesn’t bother to tell me what he expected, and I don’t bother asking.
Alistair has a habit of expecting honesty dumps while only sprinkling some of his own truths in return.
He doesn’t trust me, and that isn’t me being paranoid.
He tells me almost every day. But I’m too tired to fight him right now.
My head hurts, my ribs are in pieces, and even if I were physically fit, my worry over Colt and Ronan eats away at whatever strength I have left.
“If I check your phone, will I see numerous calls to the Russians?” he asks. “The Triads? The Italians?”
I lift my chin, fully prepared for these questions. “Yes.”
That’s honesty he doesn’t like. “Why?”
“Because I couldn’t trust you to talk me up.”
“I benefit from them trusting you,” he says, stepping farther into the room. “Why would I do anything that would jeopardize the family?”
“You can’t help it,” I hit back. “You might think you’re doing what you can to reinforce my place, but your face says everything.
You look at me like I’m a viper waiting to fucking strike.
” I’m breathless, exhaustion and pain flooding my system.
Wesson looks up at me, whining softly. “I backed myself because I cannot rely on you.”
Alistair grips the small kitchen table and shoves it aside, the legs groaning against the kitchen floor, clearly no longer caring about the noise. Wesson bares his teeth, a low grumble sounding from his throat as he stands between Alistair and me.
“You can’t rely on me? I fucking put you here,” he says, ignoring Wesson and the danger he’s in.
“You had limited choices.”
“But I’ve put my bets on you!” he bellows, then runs his hand across his mouth, fury building in his expression.
Wesson’s grumble becomes a growl, and I rest my hand on his head.
Alistair looks into my eyes, not enough space between us for me to pull Wesson back if he perceives him as more of a threat. “You’re too close to Vince Capelli.”
I blanch. Had we been that obvious? “Is that a question?”
“An accusation.”
“Everything you say is an accusation, Alistair. I’m going to bed.”
“Vince is not a good ally to have. Be smart.”
“I’m too tired to talk about this.”
He takes my arm as I pass. “Your actions reflect—”
“The McEwan family, I know. You say it fucking constantly. Yes, I’m close with Vince. Surprisingly, he hasn’t totally iced me out.”
He tightens his hold on my bicep. “Because he wants to fuck you.”
I snatch my arm away, fighting a wince as pain explodes across my shoulder. “Then trust me not to return the sentiment.”
He scoffs. “Trust.”
“You really think I’d fuck someone else? Colt has been gone barely a week, and you think—”
“And what about three months from now? Six? Twelve?” he challenges, his presence crowding me, his honey eyes blazing. “You gonna be faithful when the benefits of fucking a Harland fall short?”
“Fuck you, Alistair.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m next on your list.”
I shove him. I forget the bruised ribs, the shoulder pain, the general exhaustion of my body, and I push him so hard that his back meets the wall.
But it hurts too much, and I cry out.
Heat and pain blast across my body. I’m so fucking tired of it. Of feeling like this. I fucking hate it, I hate all of it, and I’ve done nothing to deserve Alistair’s hostility.
He offers no sympathy, but I don’t want it, anyway. I fight the tears and say, “You might not believe my feelings for Colt, but he does. And that’s all I care about.”
I storm down the hall, snatching my coat off the hook.
“Where are you going?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“You can’t go anywhere without security, Denver. You know that.”
I pause, resting my hand against the wall. He hates me, but I’m no use to him dead. He doesn’t trust me, but he needs me until I’m no longer useful. Never has concern been so fucking selfish.
“Lewis,” I call up the stairs. It’s seconds before my security and friend comes into view, brows raised in question. “Can you drive me somewhere?”
“Give me two minutes.”
Alistair stares at me, jaw ticking. “Taf should go with you, too.”
“Just like Taf replaced Lewis tonight?” I hit back. Alistair had said Lewis wasn’t needed, but I know he doesn’t trust either of us. “I choose my own security, and I trust Lewis.”
“Well—”
“I don’t care what you think, Alistair!” I rage, my cheeks heating. “I’m not your fucking puppet!”
I think the thing I hate most about Alistair is how bored he is when he’s around me.
I’m insignificant, a nuisance, not even a real threat.
He looks at me like that now, as if I’m a puzzle not worth solving, a trophy leader he can have by his side.
Even his anger reaches a certain level then cools off.
He doesn’t even hate me. I’m a bump in the road, that’s all.
“Stay away from Vince,” he says.
Colt’s chest rises and falls in a rhythm I could predict with my eyes closed. The tubes in his throat and arms are the same as always, the sounds of the machines don’t change, and he doesn’t move. I hold his hand, running my thumb over his knuckles, fighting the desperate urge to cry.
Antonia, Colt’s mom, is sitting on his other side.
She’s knitting, a hobby that she’s said she’ll teach me.
She’s talked me through it a dozen times, and I listen because I know it’s a distraction for her.
She lost one son. She might lose another.
She can talk to me about the different shades of gray if she wants to.
Antonia was the one who told Holly about Wilder’s death.
I offered to be there, but she wanted to do it alone.
The change in Holly has been devastating, her usual chattiness replaced with wide-eyed silence.
The little girl who danced up to front doors on Halloween and roared like a panda is now withdrawn and barely eating.
“He looks different.”
Antonia nods. “I trimmed his beard. I know he likes it, and I doubt he’d be pleased if I gave him a clean shave.” Her smile is brittle as she focuses on her knitting. “Do you like his beard?”
Antonia knows that I have feelings for Colt. My almost constant presence by his side gives that away. But I haven’t gone into detail because I’m wearing a wedding ring, and the fewer people who know that my marriage to Ranger is a lie, the better.
“I do,” I say. “He was clean shaven in his wedding photos, though. And he does look handsome.” I grin at her, and Antonia chuckles.
“Callie said the beard made him look angry.”
I laugh, pressing the back of Colt’s hand to my cheek. “He smiles too much to look angry.”
Antonia makes an approving humming sound. “He smiles a lot with you?”
My cheeks warm. “I think so.”
We sit in grief-riddled silence for a while. Antonia hugs me when she leaves, and Lewis excuses himself to stand outside the private room. Once we’re alone, I do what I always do and gently climb up beside Colt, nuzzling into his arm.
And I cry.
I cry as I hold him, as I miss him. He doesn’t smell like Colt anymore. Not expensive cologne or pine fresh bodywash. It’s clinical. Cold. Not him.
My tears wet the hospital pillow, and I press a kiss to his cheek. “I miss you so much.”