23. Chapter 23
Theo
Carefully extracting myself from the tangle of limbs without waking Wren or Jace requires more coordination than I typically possess before coffee, but somehow I manage it.
She looks peaceful nestled against Jace's chest, pink hair splayed across the pillow, her face relaxed in sleep.
It's a rare sight—Wren without the vigilance that usually tightens her features, without the constant awareness of potential threats.
I allow myself a moment to simply look at them both. Something warm and possessive unfurls in my chest. Mine, I think. Ours.
The thought should probably freak me out more than it does.
Sharing a woman with another man—with Jace of all people—wasn't exactly on my five-year plan.
But somehow, with Wren, it makes perfect sense.
She needs both of us. And maybe, in some way I'm not ready to fully examine, we need each other too.
After using the bathroom, I head to the kitchen for water. That's when I see it.
A note on the counter. Right where the flowers had been.
My blood turns to ice as I approach slowly, as if the paper might bite. The handwriting is neat, deliberate, almost mechanical in its precision:
"I MISS YOUR VOICE, LILLIANA. SOON."
"Fuck," I whisper, grabbing the counter to steady myself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Someone was here. In this apartment. While we slept. While Wren slept.
My first instinct is to wake them both, to sound the alarm, but I force myself to think. Wren finally looks peaceful after days of fear. And if someone was here and didn't hurt her—didn't even wake us—then perhaps there's no immediate danger.
But the note... Jesus Christ, the note. "I miss your voice." Has this person heard her speak? Before the attack? And "soon"—what the hell does that mean?
I take my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of the note, careful not to touch it.
Evidence. Then I start a methodical search of the apartment, checking windows, doors, any possible entry point.
The front door with its new lock appears untouched.
The windows are all secure. Nothing seems disturbed or out of place.
How the fuck did they get in?
I'm on my third circuit of the apartment when I hear movement from the bedroom. Jace appears in the doorway, hair rumpled from sleep, squinting slightly without his glasses.
"Coffee," he mumbles, moving toward the kitchen. Then he stops, suddenly more alert as he takes in my expression. "What's wrong?"
I gesture him over to the counter, pointing at the note without touching it. His eyes widen as he reads it, body going completely still in that way he has when processing something disturbing.
"When?" he asks, voice low enough not to carry to the bedroom.
"Found it just now," I reply, keeping my own voice equally quiet. "I've checked the whole apartment. No sign of forced entry. Nothing else disturbed."
Jace's fingers begin tapping against his thigh—three quick taps, two slow, three quick again. I've noticed the pattern before but never really thought about it. It's soothing for him, I realize. A way to process stress or intense thought.
"They were here while we slept," he says, the words carrying the weight of their implication.
"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair, fighting the urge to punch something. "Could have hurt her. Could have hurt any of us. But didn't."
"Because we were here," Jace says, eyes still fixed on the note. "They're playing with her. With us."
"Fucking psychopath," I mutter, leaning against the counter. "What's the play here? What do they want with her?"
Jace's tapping increases slightly in tempo.
"Control. Dominance. To reclaim what they see as theirs.
" His voice is clinically detached, analytical in a way that should be disturbing but is actually reassuring.
He's thinking, not reacting. "The reference to her voice suggests a connection to before the attack. Someone who knew her then."
"Someone who's been watching her for a long time," I add, the realization making my skin crawl.
"We need to make sure she's never alone," Jace says, the tapping finally stopping as he reaches a decision. "Not for a minute."
"Agreed," I say immediately. "We can take shifts. One of us can work from the café during her shifts. Or one of us can work from home when she's here."
"When she games, we game with her," Jace continues, building on the plan.
"And if she wants to cam—" I start.
"One of us stays in the apartment," Jace finishes. "Not on camera, just... present. Security."
I nod, relieved we're on the same page. "We don't take away her autonomy," I say firmly. "That's important. She's had enough control stripped from her."
"We protect without confining," Jace agrees. "Support without suffocating."
"Even therapy," I add. "One of us takes her, waits outside."
Jace nods, then moves to the coffee maker, his movements precise despite his obvious tension. "She'll argue," he says as he measures out grounds. "She'll say she doesn't want to put us at risk."
"Too bad," I reply with a shrug. "She's stuck with us now."
Jace glances at me, a hint of challenge in his eyes. "Both of us?"
And there it is—the question that's been hovering between us since the studio. Are we really doing this? Sharing a woman? Building some kind of... what? Threesome? Triad? Whatever the hell this arrangement is called?
"Both of us," I confirm, meeting his gaze steadily. "I'm not walking away from her. And I'm guessing you aren't either."
"No," he says simply. "I'm not."
"So we figure it out," I say with a confidence I mostly feel. "For her. We make it work."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You're not exactly who I imagined co-parenting with."
I snort, appreciating his attempt at humor. "First, gross. We're not her parents. Second, you're not exactly my dream roommate either, Boy Scout."
"Stop calling me that," he says, but there's no heat in it.
"Make me," I challenge, falling into our familiar pattern of banter.
His eyes narrow slightly, but I catch the hint of amusement there. "I could, you know. I've taken you down in Wasteland Chronicles enough times."
"In your dreams, Wolf," I retort. "Besides, we have more important things to focus on now."
His expression sobers. "She's ours to protect," he says quietly. "Both of ours."
The possessiveness in his voice matches what I'm feeling. "Yes," I agree. "Ours."
It should be weird, this moment of agreement over sharing her. But it's not about possession—it's about commitment. About acknowledging that we're both all in, whatever that means, whatever it takes.
Jace turns back to the coffee maker, frowning at it as if it's personally offended him. "This is going to taste like shit," he mutters. "I've never been able to get these machines to work right."
"She'll appreciate the effort," I say, glancing toward the bedroom.
"I hope so," Jace says, his voice softer now. "I'm going to wake her. Take her to that first therapy session." He glances at me. "You okay holding down the fort? Dealing with... that?" He nods toward the note.
"Yeah," I say, picking it up gingerly. "I'll hide it somewhere safe. I think maybe that therapist needs to help her remember what she is forgetting, something about this isn’t adding up and it’s biting us in the ass."
Jace nods, his expression turning thoughtful. "You might be onto something there. Dr. Levine could help her recover those lost memories. The key to figuring out who's stalking her might be locked somewhere in her mind."
"Exactly," I say, relieved he understands. "Someone clearly knows her from before. And they know things about her that even she doesn't remember."
"I agree," Jace says, running a hand through his already messy hair. "We need to create a safer environment here too. If she wants to stay here in her own space then I'm thinking we should install some cameras—not in the bedroom or bathroom obviously, but the main living areas, entry points."
"Security cameras?" I ask, considering the idea. "That's not bad. Could catch this creep in the act next time."
"Yeah," he says, but his attention seems to drift as he stares at the front door.
"Those locks were meant to be good, but obviously not good enough.
We need better ones. For the windows too.
" He taps his fingers against his thigh in that rhythmic pattern again.
"I'll have to pick them up after I drop her back home from therapy. "
I sigh, pulling out my wallet. "Let me pay for it. Whatever it costs, just get the best."
Jace scoffs, giving me a look that's somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "Just because I don't live in some lavish tower with a doorman doesn't mean I'm not loaded. I developed one of the most popular games in years, remember? The company pays me enough that I can afford a few locks."
I hold up my hands in surrender. "Fair enough, Mr. Wasteland Chronicles. Just trying to contribute to the cause."
"You can contribute by keeping her safe while I'm gone," he says, his expression softening slightly. "And maybe making some coffee that doesn't taste like battery acid."
"No on the coffee," I reply, glancing at the ancient machine dubiously. "But I can handle the protection detail."
As Jace goes back to fussing with the coffee maker, I find myself staring at the bedroom door, thinking of the woman sleeping beyond it. The woman who's somehow managed to bring Jace and me—two men who've circled each other with competitive wariness for months—into perfect alignment.
Whatever's coming, whatever "soon" means, we'll be ready. Because Wren Maddox isn't facing it alone anymore.
She has us now. Both of us. And we're not going anywhere.