Chapter 40 Parker
PARKER
Sunlight seeps through the curtains in molten ribbons of gold, warming my skin and painting bright stripes across the rumpled cotton of the sheets. For a long moment I lie still, eyes half-closed, letting the morning glow coax my brain awake after a night almost entirely bereft of sleep.
Jace lies beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, anchoring me with the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. Still asleep.
Cal and Silas have already gone—I can feel the icy imprint of Silas’s body where he pressed against my back all night, and on my other side there’s nothing but the cool, empty space where Cal should be.
They’re off to meet Charles this morning to hash out the Ryan situation, the Aria situation—really, the everything’s-going-to-shit situation.
But here, in this hushed half-light, there’s only me and Jace and the gentle hush of dawn. I turn my head to gaze at him, fully awake now, free to drink in every detail without fear of being caught staring. God, he’s beautiful.
I shouldn’t still think that—not after the rage I felt when he doubted me, after watching him let Charles twist his mind until he’d rather investigate me like a threat than come straight to the woman he claims to love. But I do think it. Can’t help it.
Jace asleep is nothing like Jace awake. Gone is the taut precision, the razor-sharp intensity he wields on every op.
In its place is softness: his brow smoothed, the crease between his shoulders relaxed.
His dark hair is tousled, mussed by my fingers and the pillow where he buried his face sometime around three, seeking comfort in the hollow of my neck. His breathing is deep, unguarded.
His steel-blue lashes rest like fallen wings over cheekbones that catch the dawn, and a faint five-o’clock shadow softens his jaw, making him look less invincible, more human—more mine.
I’m still furious with him. Hurt that he let Ryan’s lies plant seeds of doubt instead of asking me for the truth.
That he chose meticulous investigation over the simplest act of communication.
And I understand exactly why—understand it so painfully that my chest aches.
This man, so disciplined and controlled, shattered himself because he loves me.
The mere possibility of losing me—to those boys, to California, to anyone else—was enough to break his mind open.
He let himself spiral, let himself be fragile and afraid.
And damned if that vulnerability doesn’t make my heart catch.
That Jace Moreau—tactical genius, Carter enforcer, the man who can end a life in six different ways before they hit the ground—loves me so fiercely he nearly fell apart.
My fingers itch to trace the inked lines across his skin, tattoos I’ve memorized in breathless detail.
There’s the compass rose over his heart, its needle forever pointing north—coordinates etched beneath in tight, black script that mark the spot where he, Cal, Silas, and Charles spilled their first blood together and bound themselves as brothers.
Along his ribs curls an elegant calligraphic quote: In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take.
He told me once it was a vow to stop overthinking, to leap instead of calculating.
He should have remembered that before he began investigating me.
On his shoulder blade a phoenix stretches wide, wings unfurling in permanent rebirth—reminders all of destruction and renewal, of rising stronger from the ashes.
I let my fingertips follow those lines, drifting from the compass down to the script, feeling the soft swell of muscle and bone beneath sleep-warm skin. His heartbeat thrums steady and sure—the quiet rhythm I’ve fallen asleep to more nights than I can count.
He shifts, a soft sound rumbling in his throat, caught somewhere between sleep and waking.
I should let him rest. After Silas laid out every contingency, after we argued strategy with Charles at dawn, hours of talking bled into need, into touch, into losing ourselves in each other because out there everything is complicated and fragile, but this—us—simple and certain.
Still, I don’t want to let him sleep. I want those steel-blue eyes open, fixed on me in the golden light before reality drags us back into chaos.
I slide closer, pressing my bare skin flush against his, savoring the heat of his body.
The floor is littered with the evidence of last night’s abandon: my storm-grey dress in a soft puddle by the door, Jace’s tux jacket draped over a chair, Cal’s shirt crumpled near the bed, Silas’s pants hanging from the bedpost.
I press a light kiss to Jace’s chest, right over the compass rose that always points north. He stirs again, his arm tightening around my waist in a silent claim, and I smile into the slow dawn as he pulls me closer—even in sleep, even now, he won’t let me go.
“Jace,” I murmur against his skin.
Another kiss, this one moving up toward his collarbone.
“Jace.”
His breathing changes—still deep but not quite as even. His hand slides up my back, warm and possessive, fingers spreading across my shoulder blade.
“Princess?” His voice is rough with sleep, slightly confused. “That you?”
“No, it’s the other woman you have in your bed,” I say against his skin.
That gets a response. His eyes open—steel-blue and slightly unfocused, but there. He blinks, processing, then looks down at me.
“Parker.” There’s relief in his voice, like he needed to confirm it was really me, really here, really in his arms.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“No.” His hand moves up to cup the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. “Just... making sure this isn’t a dream.”
“I’m here.” I trace the phoenix on his shoulder with one finger. “Cal and Silas left already. Meeting with Charles.”
“What time is it?”
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “Seven thirty.”
“Fuck.” He closes his eyes again. “Too early.”
“You’re the one who’s always up at dawn doing tactical exercises or whatever it is you do.”
“That’s work. This is...” He pulls me closer, settling me more firmly against his side. “This is better than work.”
I smile against his skin, pressing another kiss to his chest. “Smooth.”
“I’m trying.” His thumb strokes along my scalp in a gentle rhythm. “You okay? After everything last night?”
“Which everything? The gala, the Ryan situation, or the part where Silas nearly kicked down my door and then we all ended up here?”
“All of it.”
I consider the question. Am I okay? I’m angry—at Ryan for lying, at Aria for scheming, at Charles for manipulating the situation.
I’m hurt—that Jace and Cal doubted me, that they investigated instead of trusting.
I’m worried—about what Ryan might do, what Aria knows or thinks she knows, what this means for the boys.
But I’m also here, in Jace’s arms, in my bed, in a house next door to the one where Cal and Silas live. I’m wearing the colors I chose to claim them publicly. I have DNA results coming soon that will answer questions we’ve all been too scared to ask.
I’m not alone anymore. And that’s worth something.
“I’m okay,” I say finally. “Still mad at you. Still processing. But okay.”
“I’ll take it.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “And for what it’s worth—I’m still sorry. For doubting you. For not coming to you first.”
“I know you are.”
“I love you.” His voice is quiet, serious, the kind of tone he usually reserves for tactical briefings or life-or-death decisions.
“I know I fucked up. I know saying it doesn’t fix it.
But I need you to know—I love you, Parker.
More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone.
And I’m going to prove I’ve learned from this. That I can be what you need.”
The words settle in my chest, warm and aching and full of promise.
“I love you too,” I whisper. “Even when I’m mad at you. Even when you spiral instead of just talking to me.”
“Even when I’m an idiot?”
“Even then.”
He laughs—quiet, rough, genuine. The sound vibrates through his chest against my cheek.
“Good to know I have job security.”
I shift, propping myself up on one elbow so I can look down at him. His hair is a mess, his eyes still slightly unfocused from sleep, stubble darkening his jaw. He looks rumpled and human and absolutely perfect.
“You know what I realized last night?” I ask.
“What?”
“You’re not as in control as you pretend to be.”
His eyebrow raises. “That’s what you realized?”
“You present this image—tactical genius, always three steps ahead, never rattled, never uncertain. But with me?” I trace the line of his jaw with my finger.
“You fall apart. You spiral. You lose your mind at the thought of losing me. And that’s.
..” I search for the right word. “That’s kind of hot, actually. ”
“Hot.” He sounds skeptical.
“Yeah. Hot. The idea that I can make Jace Moreau —Mr. Tactical Precision himself—completely lose his shit? That’s power, Jace.
That’s you being vulnerable enough to let me see that I matter.
That we matter. That the thought of losing this is enough to break through all that control you’ve spent years building. ”
His hand moves from my hair to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
“You terrify me,” he admits quietly. “The depth of what I feel for you, how much I need you—it’s not tactical.
It’s not controlled. It’s messy and overwhelming and sometimes I don’t know how to handle it except to try to protect it.
Protect you. Even when that means making stupid decisions like investigating instead of trusting. ”
“I know.” I lean into his touch. “And I’m going to teach you how to handle it better. How to talk to me instead of spiraling. How to trust me even when things get complicated. How to be vulnerable without falling apart.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
“Good thing I’m patient.”