Chapter 59
The engines settle into a soothing thrum as the city drops away beneath us. Los Angeles shrinks. The Pacific stretches, and the air inside Monty’s private jet smells like recycled oxygen and mobsters.
Fucking Russians. I don’t trust them.
I don’t trust Monty’s island. I don’t trust the plane, the sky, or the silence between the turbulence.
But I trust Wolf.
I still can’t wrap my head around it.
Twenty years of tracking Adrian Crowe. Twenty years of building traps and watching him slip free every time. I mapped his money, his routes, his business deals, and those of his evil business partners. I stalked him through data, every second of every day, for two fucking decades.
And Wolf walked in and ended him in a single night. A bomb on his chest, a razor blade behind his inked smile, and no fucks to give.
I’d throttle him for it if I didn’t want to grab his hair, shove a hand under his skirt, and assault his mouth until he comes in his hot sequined shorts.
He’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. Reckless in a way that begs for punishment. And he’s mine, if the world would give us five uninterrupted minutes to say the things we’re not saying.
I owe him my life.
I owe him Dove.
Sitting near the rear of the plane, I rest my hands on my lap because if I don’t, they’ll start searching for things to break.
The Restrepo cartel has my little bird.
They fucking took her.
That truth jolts in my head. Not relief. Not terror. But the extremes of both, braided into a live wire.
I need my computer equipment.
Wolf said they moved everything to the island before Crowe’s people could destroy it. Servers, drives, redundancies stacked on redundancies. My work, my mind, all laid out in metal and code.
Except for my connection to the Restrepo cartel. Those files are buried so deep I built them to survive excavation, layers upon layers, the kind that would take Mikhail years to peel back, if he ever managed it at all.
But if he somehow corrupted or compromised my servers, I won’t be able to contact the cartel.
I shut that thought down. I’ll know soon enough.
Monty’s in the cockpit, flying us back to Sitka. His co-pilot, Oliver, sits beside him. Kodiak sprawls near the front with Mikhail, pretending not to listen while listening to everything.
I track Wolf by feel, following his restless orbit through the cabin.
He stops in the doorway of the cockpit, a hand braced on the bulkhead, and speaks quietly with Monty.
From the moment we left the nightclub, Monty hasn’t relaxed his jaw or released his breath. He wears the look of a father who knows his son keeps stepping into fires he can’t follow. He’s terrified of losing Wolf again.
Wolf lowers his brow to Monty’s head and murmurs something that makes Monty’s shoulders loosen a fraction. Whatever Wolf says, it’s meant only for Monty, a quiet assurance from a son who knows precisely how much fear he leaves in his wake and is asking to be trusted anyway.
He checks Kody next, a quick scan, a wordless exchange of eye contact I can’t begin to decipher.
Then he’s standing before me. Baptized by Adrian Crowe’s jugular. Blood cakes his inked smile, clings to his jaw, and mats into his hairline.
The eyeliner didn’t survive the night. It smudges his eyes into dark ruin and bleeds down his cheeks in inky trails that cut through drying red.
More gore splatters his ivory lace skirt that hangs obscenely over mean thigh-high boots.
The rings and necklace are gone. The vest and bomb long gone.
He’s shirtless, his chest bludgeoned with more scars than I have the years, or the right, to count.
Old lines. New ones. Wounds that healed clean. Others that didn’t bother.
I’ve seen monsters up close. I hunted one for most of my life.
Wolf isn’t that.
He’s aftermath. Drenched in blood that isn’t his. Hair wild. Eyes chillingly ferocious. He’s never looked more beautiful.
“You look like roadkill.” He gives me a once-over and wrinkles his nose. “Come on.”
He offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation.
At the rear, he pushes open the narrow bathroom door. The shower stall is barely more than a coffin with plumbing.
“You first.” He glances at it, then at me, mouth twitching. “I’ll help.”
We both know it’s impossible. There isn’t room for the two of us to breathe, let alone move.
“Rain check.” I brush my thumb along his bottom lip.
He grasps the hand I hold to his face, presses a kiss to my palm, and steps back.
The door seals. The hum of the engines dulls, replaced by the hiss of water. When it hits my skin, it hurts. Everything does.
The stream runs red immediately. Ten days of rust-dark filth and nightmares.
I brace my palms against the wall, forehead following, and take inventory.
Shoulder. Dislocated ten days ago and slammed back in without finesse. It’s stiff, sore, but holding.
Wrist. Broken a month ago and still aches, but usable.
Ribs. Kicked by boots and bruised into a kaleidoscope of colors. Breathing is tight, but no stabbing pain. Nothing broken.
Face. Swollen, tender, jaw clicks when I open my mouth. Probably fine.
Eyes. The skin around them burns where the metal prongs dug in, tiny cuts I feel more than see. I rinse carefully, blinking through the sting.
The water clears, pink fading to nothing.
After I brush my teeth, I stand there longer than necessary, steam fogging the walls, grounding myself in the simple fact that I’m upright, unrestrained, and alone with my thoughts for the first time since Crowe’s men took me.
Outside the door, I hear Wolf shift his stance. Waiting. Guarding.
When I shut off the water and reach for a towel, the door cracks. An arm shoves through, holding out clean clothes.
“I didn’t see your duffel bag.” Wolf meets my eyes through the opening, his brow creasing.
The same worried look he gave me that night, when he asked if the bag was all I had to my name.
“They took the duffel.” I accept the clothes from him. “It was part of the setup to make it look like I killed your guards and skipped town.”
“They killed Declan.”
“I know.” My stomach twists. “I’m so sorry, pup.”
He looks away and waits while I dress. The lounge pants and plain tee fit perfectly. They must belong to Wolf. He and I are the same size. I pull the neckline to my nose and sniff. Delicious. Definitely Wolf.
While Wolf showers, I stretch out on the narrow sofa at the back of the plane, and my eyes drift closed despite myself.
I’m halfway under when the door slides open.
Wolf steps out in similar lounge wear, soft fabric clinging where it shouldn’t. His black hair drips on his shoulders, the blood and makeup gone. Clean skin, except not entirely.
The sharpie lines remain, albeit faded and pink, as if he scrubbed them until his skin screamed.
“I can’t…” He gestures helplessly at his face, holding a bottle of hand sanitizer. “If Frankie sees this…”
“Come here.” I push myself up, making room for him on the couch between my legs.
He settles there, facing me, shoulders hunched. I take the bottle from his hand, soak the cloth, and bring it to his cheek.
“Frankie was there.” I start slow, making small, careful circles. “The last time you drew this on.”
He makes an uncomfortable sound in his throat.
“That’s why you don’t want her to see it?” I keep my touch light. “It’ll traumatize her?”
“Yeah.” His mouth flattens beneath my fingers, troubled and sad. “Like a breaking storm.”
I work the sanitizer into the ink, watching the lines blur, lift, and surrender in streaks of gray and pink. His skin is already irritated, tender from over-cleaning.
I think about the life he survived. The isolation, starvation, kin punishment, molestation, and men who enjoyed breaking things. Loss layered on loss until pain became background noise. Worse than the hell Dove and I navigated, and ours was fucking brutal.
I’m glad he let me read the journal.
Without it, I don’t think I could sit here like this. I’d still be guessing at his depths and angles instead of understanding the cost. It gives me the clarity I need to move forward with him, whatever forward ends up meaning.
The cloth darkens. The smile fades.
In Sitka, I’ll get my equipment back. I’ll contact Restrepo. I’ll bargain, threaten, and trade favors I shouldn’t owe.
I’ll sell my soul to get Dove back.
Whatever is left of me when it’s done, I’ll give to her and Wolf.
I know what I am now. A hacker for the cartel, and they don’t let go. I won’t pretend I can escape, not without dragging hell behind me. That door is closed.
But if I let myself dream, just for a second, I would give Dove and Wolf the world. Not to own it. Not to stand in the middle of it. Just to be allowed to exist at the edges of their life together.
Eventually, the last of the ink disappears. I use a bottle of water to wipe away the harsh sting of sanitizer.
When I’m done, I tip his chin up with two fingers and look him over. “It’s gone.”
“Blue princess.” He studies my face.
I hold his gaze, waiting for the questions.
“Were you leaving breadcrumbs for me on purpose?” His eyes sharpen despite the exhaustion. “Or was it a slip?”
“It was a clue. Insurance. One I didn’t think you’d ever need.”
He nods, absorbing that, then tilts his head. “What about the rock at the gravesite? The passcode?”
“That was for Dove. I left it the last time I went to California.”
“When you killed Gavin.”
Shock grips me, followed by a hard snap of defensiveness. I don’t know why I bother feeling either. Wolf doesn’t miss details. He devours them.
He’s frighteningly smart.
And Dove? Yeah. She pieced it together, too.
“I’d do it again.” I let the confession hover.
He watches me, seeing everything, and somehow still staying right where he is.
“You know all my secrets. I’m fully exposed.” His mouth tips. “You have the advantage, because I don’t know yours.”
“Dove told you everything, I’m sure.”
“Only what she knows. I want your story.”