Chapter 67 - Wolfson
Pulse humming and shoulders loose, I stroll into the private suite with my new ride-or-die bestie at my side.
Frizz shuts the door behind us, and I scan the bougie space I’ll be sharing with Jag and Dove.
They’re not here.
Absence leaves a trace, and yeah, Jag and Dove left one. My eyes go straight to the bed.
Whatever happened, the mattress lost the fight. Sheets twisted, pillows flung, the quilt dragged halfway to the floor… If I press my nose to it, will I smell the climax of their reconciliation workout?
One can only hope.
Beside me, Frizz waggles his eyebrows, his lips twitching behind the stitches.
“Stepsiblings.” I clap him on the back. “They’re a whole genre of filthy.”
He folds in half, shaking with silent laughter.
This guy. He laughs at all my jokes.
When he straightens, he wipes his eyes and jabs a thumb toward the door.
“Yeah. Go on.” I wave him off. “Don’t forget. Tattoo session at ten.”
He gives me a thumbs-up and slips out.
Unhooking my corset, I let it fall to the floor. Then I explore the suite, opening drawers, evaluating space, and emptying the luggage.
I hang what needs hanging, fold the rest, and line up shoes. I packed enough clothes for Jag and Dove to accommodate every mood swing, identity shift, and wardrobe crisis.
Honestly, what would they do without me?
The sun slides down the glass windows, turning everything honey-gold. Outside, the jungle presses close, hovering like a dark, patient thing, beckoning me.
I grab my smokes and step onto the balcony.
The view drops away, the whole compound laid out beneath me.
When we flew in, they blindfolded me. Protocol. But I can picture the route, how long the helicopter banked, how the air changed, how my ears popped with altitude and distance. We’re deep in the rainforest. No roads, no civilization, no walking out alive.
Remote doesn’t scare me. Isolation and I have history. We’ve had long talks.
This place feels as off-the-map as Hoss.
Instead of freaking out about that, I find comfort in it.
Down below, men in black move with purpose, crossing paths, turning corners, rifles carried at ease, not brandished.
I light up and lean on the rail, smoke curling into the damp air.
The thing I don’t expect is how not lonely this place feels. There’s noise under the quiet, footsteps on marble, laughter around every corner, and camaraderie everywhere. The walls pulse with life.
And the inner circle? I grin to myself. They’re a pack of emotionally-damaged cupcakes with hidden knives and murderous tendencies.
I take a drag and let myself think the thought all the way through.
I like them. All the ones I’ve met so far.
I like that I can joke about my childhood trauma and no one flinches, rushes to smooth it over, or asks if I’m okay.
I say uncomfortable shit, and they nod like, Yeah, been there. Done that.
For me, that’s home.
I follow the balcony around the corner and stare out over the citrus grove below, the trees heavy with green and gold. A clearing opens at the center, and there they are.
Jag and Dove sit on a bench, their heads tipped together, in their own little world. Jag grips her hands and says something that makes her spring to her feet.
Uh oh.
She starts pacing, fingers yanking at her braids, voice climbing, arms cutting the air. I don’t catch every word, just the loudest ones.
“He wore a fucking bomb?” Her eyes snap up.
Straight to me.
That’s my cue to back away. So naturally, I step forward and curtsy.
I don’t need 20/20 vision to see the look she spears me. I feel it grab me by the balls.
Jag slides along the bench and pulls her down to his lap. He cups her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. She’s crying too hard for a kiss, so he captures her nape and brings their foreheads together.
“You would make a terrible spy,” says a gravelly male voice behind me.
I spin and come face-to-face with Van Quiso.
Impossible to mistake him with that toothpick parked between his lips. Or the scar cutting from his eye to his mouth, wrecking the symmetry of his face and somehow sharpening everything else.
When I saw him in the nightclub, I didn’t know who he was.
Now that I’ve memorized his dossier, I understand exactly why his presence makes my blood run cold.
Hands clasped behind him and boots braced apart, he radiates a dominant posture, one that says he owns this view, this moment, maybe the whole damned kingdom.
Legacy King of The Freedom Fighters.
Former human sex trafficker.
His nine victims now stand shoulder to shoulder with him in the inner circle.
And I am wildly, inappropriately gobsmacked. Not in an approval way. In a staring-at-a-volcano way. I don’t want to go near him. I also don’t want to look away.
“Hi.” I crush out the cigarette. “Do you prefer a high-five, a bent knee, or should I just scream and throw myself off the balcony?”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “You’re different.”
“Never heard that before.”
“We like different around here.” He flicks the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other as his gaze sweeps over my shirtless, scarred chest. “You’ll fit in just fine.”
“Cool.” I glance past him, then back. “How did you get in here?”
“I wanted to see if Jag hacked the security and changed the locks yet.” He crosses muscled arms. “He hasn’t.”
“Jag’s been busy.”
His gaze drifts over my shoulder, and I follow it to the clearing where Jag holds Dove on his lap.
I step into Van’s line of sight, blocking it.
He hums quietly, thoughtful.
“I stopped by for two reasons.” He removes the toothpick, spins it between his fingers, and returns it to his mouth. “First, I want a tattoo.”
My brain short-circuits.
A tattoo.
On Van Quiso.
Of all the things I expected to come out of his mouth, that wasn’t even on the list. The idea of putting my needles anywhere near that scarred, people-eating myth of a man sends a wicked thrill through me.
“Yeah.” I play it cool. “My schedule’s pretty packed.”
“Everyone’s talking. People lining up, figuring out what they want from the resident artist.”
Resident artist?
Love that for me.
He steps closer, making sure I’m aware of him in a very biological way. “You’ll do me first.”
“Actually, Frizz is first.”
He glares at me with silver eyes that don’t hurry. The pause stretches long enough for my guts to reconsider all my life choices.
“Fine.” He shrugs. “You’ll do me after Frizz.”
“I’m not cheap. It’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.”
Another glare. My insides shrivel.
“But for you?” I lift a finger, adjusting. “Just the arm. Maybe a toe.”
The corner of his mouth tips into an almost smile.
“The last thing.” He drops his voice to a velvet rumble. “I like how you handled Crowe. The bomb. The razor blade.”
My heart skips.
“I was running surveillance at the nightclub that night. Had a dozen operatives on standby, a mole buried behind enemy lines, and we were still days, maybe weeks out from making a clean grab for Jag.” His eyes bore into mine. “You made us all look slow.”
“I get impatient when people I love are taken from me.”
“You thought outside the box, kid. And you didn’t flinch. We need a mind like yours on the team.”
“You offering me a job?”
“I’m offering you a life. Right here. At the table. With Jag.”
“What about Dove?”
“She’s already in. Making friends, getting grease under her nails while working on Luke’s cars, rolling through the halls on her skates, and painting her toes with the ladies. She’s not going anywhere.”
I feel the yes line up in my chest, but I don’t say it. Not without Jag and Dove weighing in.
“I mean…” I motion between us, the grove, the citadel, the general state of my existence. “That’s a hell of a pitch. Let me… Sit with the vibe. Consult the council. Scream into a pillow. I’ll circle back.”
“You do that.”
“Leave him alone, Van.”
I turn toward the musical voice, and Holy Mother of all, Liv Reed steps out of the shadows.
Long black hair spills down her back in glossy sheets. Her black mini dress leaves little to the imagination, the arrangement of straps looking edgy and severe without trying.
She’s the incarnate of Kate Beckinsale, Death Dealer of the Underworld, and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.
Hard to believe she was Van’s first slave.
Dominatrix energy blasts from her, shaking my legs with the urge to kneel for her and press my lips to her stilettos.
And the scar on her face? Same line. Same angle. An exact mirror of Van’s.
“Pay up.” She holds out a palm to Van.
He exhales through his nose and reaches into his pocket. A Colombian paper bill appears. The big one. He stabs it with his toothpick and holds it out like an offering.
“Gross.” She pinches it by the corner and finally looks at me.
I’m openly staring.
“We had a bet.” She stuffs the money between her breasts. “On how long it would take your boy to hack the security system. I knew it wouldn’t be today. He’s too busy being in love.”
Van grunts, accepting the loss.
My skin itches with nerves and restlessness. I reach for my smokes, and her eyes narrow the second the flame flares.
“Are you the smoke police?” I take a drag.
“Hardly.” She gives a feminine snort. Then continues to glare.
“Want one?” I hold out the pack.
She accepts it without hesitation.
My hands shake as I strike the lighter again, cupping the flame for her. I hate that she notices.
She leans in, inhales, and tips her head back through a long, slow exhale like she’s been waiting years for it. Her shoulders loosen. Her spine eases. The entire jungle sighs with her.
Then she pins me with a stare that could peel paint off steel. “If you tell my husband I smoke, I’ll crush your precious little jewels under my boot.”
My balls recoil into my body, running for cover.
I can’t tell her I’ve memorized the portfolio for every member of the inner circle. So I slap on my dumbest face.
“Which one is he?” I tilt my head, squinting a little. “Tall, dark, and handsome? Big, bronze, and scary?”
“Don’t fuck with me, boy.” She steps into my space, leans in, and exhales a slow, intimidating stream of smoke.
Her dark eyes imprison mine, daring me to shrink.
I don’t move. Don’t cough. I blink through the haze and let it wash over me, because flinching would be a mistake.
“Your poker face isn’t bad.” She straightens and returns to the railing. “But no one wears a mask as well as I do.”
“She’s not wrong,” Van says unhelpfully.
“My husband…” She prompts, waiting for me to fess up.
“Joshua Carter.” I wipe my palms on my shorts. “Retired linebacker with pale green eyes and black hair.”
“He will not find out about this.” She waves the cigarette.
“Your secret. Buried. Unmarked grave.”
Van chuckles and ruffles my hair.
Then something wild happens.
They pull up chairs. Casual. Like this is a patio in the suburbs and not the nerve center of a criminal mythos.
Liv crosses her legs, stiletto hooked on the rung, cigarette balanced just so. Van pours tequila. Time loosens its grip. And we… Hang out.
They gossip about inner-circle nonsense, who’s having the most sex, who’s pretending not to care, which spouse grovels the most, which one never uses the gym, which Gomez sister can kick Van’s ass.
Liv razzes Van about leaving toothpicks everywhere.
Van fires back about her reorganizing the kitchen like it’s a crime scene.
They argue like siblings.
It’s bizarre. Deeply so. These two share a history born of horror, captivity, and coercion. Things that should never lead to a shared life, let alone a shared daughter. Yet here they are, sniping and smirking and passing tequila like normal people who forgot to be notorious criminals.
The topic of Dove comes up, of course. Her love of vintage engines and her interest in fixing Van’s 1965 Mustang. Van says Luke’s cars run better after she touches them. Liv grins like she’s already claimed her.
I laugh more than I expect to. I relax more than I plan to.
Beneath the bloodlust and carnage, they’re just people. Scarred, disturbing, kinky, freaky people who bicker, keep secrets, and love fiercely.
There’s another layer there, too. The thing they don’t talk about. The real work. The hunting of monsters worse than themselves.
The conversation remains friendly, deliberately harmless, and carefully clean. It’ll stay that way until I choose to sit at the real table.
Until then, we talk about tattoos and marriages and who owes who money. And I realize I’m no longer bracing for the drop. I’m just there, enjoying it.