34
Luna
I’m plastered against the tinted windows of Cade’s brand new pickup, iced tea dripping onto my jeans unnoticed as I watch Cade talk to the manager.
This is my first real glimpse of him interacting with—well, anyone in broad daylight, and it’s something. He towers over the man in front of the garage, not just in height but in sheer presence. Cade looks civil, even friendly, yet the man nods like a puppet, terror written all over his face.
Then it hits me. Strip away the tactical gear and molded T-shirts, put him in Armani, and Cade would outclass every made man in Papa’s study. Scrap that, he’d fucking intimidate them.
He has that regal bearing, that air of absolute authority—in spades.
Right now, though, I see what others might miss: the way he’s favoring his right side, that slight hitch in his posture when he gestur es toward our shot-up truck, and the drawn look around his eyes. Pain. From the bullets he took for me.
He pats the man on his shoulder and makes his way back, each measured step betraying his wounds.
My stomach knots as he slides into the driver’s seat, jaw tight with discomfort. “Cade, you need a doctor.”
“What I need is to get you somewhere safe.” He adjusts the rear mirror as he backs out of the lot. “I’m in no shape to handle another fight.”
That shuts me up. Through my side mirror, I stare at the old pickup sitting at the back of the dealer’s lot, its shattered windows, perforated body, and that bloody handprint, a reminder of what he did for me.
What I almost did to him.
“The dealer will turn it into scrap in a few minutes,” Cade murmurs, misreading my stare for fear of discovery.
“Really? Like he handled producing an identical pickup within minutes without asking questions about the blood and bullet holes?”
Cade’s mouth twitches. “He’s handled worse for me.”
I nod as if that makes perfect sense and study our new ride. It’s a Ford F-150 Limited in obsidian black color. “You must really love this model, though.”
He gives an amused grunt.
“What, don’t you drive anything else?”
“It’s practical. And perfect for Saint.”
“Practical,” I snort, looking around. Black leather seats, spacious cabin. Everything is exactly like the last one, down to the pet shelter and unusually large center console. “Try identical.”
When my eyes catch on the back seat, muscle memory takes over. I reach under and find what I expect: an identical military-grade first aid kit.
Go figure.
“Cade?” I chew my lip. “Where are your weapons? I didn’t see you transfer anything.”
He reaches between us, fingers finding an invisible button in the center console. The panel slides away, revealing an arsenal that steals my breath—handguns, rifles, knives, each piece arranged with precision.
Understanding dawns on me. “You have a fleet of these, don’t you? They’re not just trucks, they’re . . .”
“Mobile arsenals,” he confirms. “Stationed where I need them.”
I settle back in my seat, letting that sink in. The scale of his operations, his resources, the planning—it’s dizzying. Every time I think I understand the scope of who Cade Quinn is, the picture gets bigger and more complex.
He makes a sharp turn and grimaces, and instantly, my eyes are drawn to his side again. I’ve been trying not to stare, but I can’t help noticing how the bandage is starting to stain his fresh T-shirt. The combat gauze isn’t staunching the wound anymore.
“Your wound—” My fingers twist in my lap. “I didn’t put enough pressure, did I?”
“It’ll hold.” The words come through clenched teeth.
“That’s not reassuring. Cade, you need a hospital.”
“Relax, baby.” His warm hand finds my thigh, squeezing gently. “I’ve got someone who’ll patch me up.”
“Someone who makes house calls for bullet wounds?” I arch a brow, trying to ignore how his touch both steadies and excites me. “Let me guess—another connection who ‘handles things’?”
His mouth quirks,. “Something like that. An ex-military surgeon.”
“And he’s meeting us in Harmony?”
“ We can’t go to Harmony yet. We need to make a stop first.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach twist.
“A stop? ”
“Just a precaution in case we’re still being followed. There are women and children in Harmony, and I don’t need a hit squad tagging along for the ride.”
He hesitates, something passing across his face I can’t read. “Besides, there’s someone who can protect you in case I’m . . . out of commission longer than expected. You might as well meet him.”
“Who is it?”
“Scar.”
He hinted about baggage being there last night. “Let’s hear it, then. Who is he?”
A dangerous smile plays on his lips. “Why spoil the fun? You’ll meet him in less than an hour.”
Forty-five minutes later, the truck veers onto a private road, the hum of the tires on the pavement breaking the silence. Mansions rise on either side, each estate sprawled across acres of land, hidden behind privacy walls and electronic gates.
Cade stops in front of one, and at the touch of a few buttons, the huge gates swing open, revealing a winding drive lined with towering palms. The house ahead rises like a fever dream. Three stories of glass and steel sweep up from manicured grounds, the architecture all sharp angles and clean lines. A circular driveway leads to wide limestone steps flanked by sculptured desert gardens.
“Where are we?” My voice comes out slightly awestruck as he pulls up on the drive.
Cade huffs out a breath. “My house.”
I blink, my gaze snapping back to the building. I’m still struggling to process this when he slides out, rounds the hood, and opens my door. I can’t even muster a snarky comment about his suddenly impeccable manners.
While he releases Saint, I step out on shaky legs. “You live here?”
“No.” He reaches for our bags. “Scar does.”
I study the house again, trying to reconcile this piece of the puzzle. The sleek modernism feels wrong—too polished for the man I’m coming to know.
“Where do you live, then?”
He turns and fixes me with that unnerving stare that strips everything bare. “Nowhere. Hotels, mostly. I move from hit to hit.”
The words punch the air from my lungs. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was gutting me on purpose. But no—this is just Cade being Cade, honest to the point of brutality.
The kill list. It’s not just work—it’s his whole existence. Every breath, every move is dedicated to hunting. Avenging. A life with no room for normal things.
Like having a home.
“What about Saint? Does he move around with you?”
“No. He stays with familiar faces.” Cade stops in front of me. “Mostly Scar.”
“Alright. I’m going to need some spoilers. Who the hell is this guy?”
Cade’s hand finds my chin, tilting my face to meet his intense gaze. “I trust him with my life and he trusts me with his.”
“Great. Thrilled for you both. That’s not what I asked.”
“His legal name is Cade Quinn.”
The world tilts on its axis. “What?”
For the first time, I see something crack in that impenetrable mask. Cade’s gaze drifts past me, searching shadows for answers I’m not sure exist.
“ He bears my name. Lives my life. Everything I have belongs to him.” His eyes lock back on mine. “You may also notice he looks like me—”
“What the fuck—”
“—has similar mannerisms . . .”
My stomach drops. “Are you saying this man impersonates you?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Why . . . How is that—”
“Short story, I was meant to kill him. I didn’t. Now it’s . . . convenient to have a body double.”
“Dear God, this is . . .” Words fail me. “You are beyond fucked up, Cade Quinn.”
“Luciana.” His hands frame my face, his grip firm but not harsh. “Scar doesn’t know me.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” The words taste bitter. “You said he looks and acts like you.”
I can’t tell if what’s churning in my chest is jealousy, revulsion, or something worse—curiosity.
Cade’s thumb strokes over my lower lip, and it’s enough to ignite something deep in my core. “Scar doesn’t know me, baby. Not the way you do.”
He’s talking about his kill list.
“But how can he not? You two work . . . kill together—”
“Listen.” His voice dips, something raw scraping at the edges. “To Scar, to Hawkins—my FBI handler—and even to my sister, I’m Cade. Or Special Agent Quinn.”
“And to me?”
He looks at me, and something in his gaze sinks its claws into my soul. “To you, I’m Caden Michael Quinn. Matilda’s revenge.”
His confession knocks the air ou t of my lungs. But the bitch in my head is right on cue, whispering cruel truths.
What’s the worth of having his secrets when the rest of him—his heart, his soul—belong to his demons? To his mission? To his partner? Even the tattoo on his back brands him as MC property. You’ll never have all of him.
I grit my teeth and shove the thought aside, raising my walls fast, before the truths slice deep. My armor takes the form of a sultry smile and a practiced look at him from beneath my lashes.
“So, when you said you share everything you own with him . . .” I purr. “Did you mean things like money and properties?”
“Yes.” His furrowed brows and clipped answer are a warning I choose to ignore.
I wet my lips. “And what about . . . me? Would you share me with him, Cade?”
Danger flashes in Cade’s eyes. “What the fuck do you think?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s like you said, it’s convenient to have a body double.” My fingers skim over the muscles of his uninjured shoulder. “Why don’t I meet this other Cade Quinn and see which one I like better—”
Cade pins me against the truck and crushes his mouth to mine with a raw, desperate intensity that steals my breath. There’s something almost . . . showy in the way he lifts my ass and wraps my thighs around his hips as he brutally ruts into me. Like he’s staking a claim.
“You’re mine alone,” he growls against my lips, swallowing my whimper as he grinds into me again.
“Cade, I was only joking—”
“Say it.” He barks.
“Fine, I’m yours al—”
He doesn’t let me finish. As if he’d rather taste the words, he devours my mouth again, tangling his tongue with mine. And then, just as abruptly, he releases me and jerks back like he’s been burned. I stagger against the truck, knees suddenly like jelly.
Message received loud and clear; he is not that generous.
Once my balance is restored, I look up, and my breath catches. Suddenly I realize why Cade stopped trying to fuck me right in the open.
The other Cade Quinn is coming down the limestone steps, and oh boy . . .
He looks exactly like Cade.
Same muscular build. Same broad shoulders. Dark blond hair and stubbled jaw. He’s even dressed like Cade in a torso-molding t-shirt.
Only, there’s something about the way he moves that is . . . oddly mesmerizing. It’s fast and soundless. Almost like gliding. I didn’t think it was possible for anything to walk like that.
I can’t stop staring as he gets nearer, noticing other details like the long scar running down the side of his face, from his temple to his jaw.
My spine stiffens, however, when I notice their tattoos also match perfectly, right down to the puckered skin around his wrist. It’s like a mockery of Cade’s pain.
Acid burns through me—an instant, visceral dislike.
How dare he wear Cade’s skin like this?
The only relief comes from the military dog tag hanging at his throat. If he’d worn a metal rosary too, I might claw his eyes out—and yep, they’re green, too.
“Well, aren’t you two cozy,” Scar drawls when he reaches us. His voice is just as deep, although it lacks Cade’s rough timbre.
Scar pulls Cade into a hug, burying his face in the crook of Cade’s neck. Scar’s lids fall closed for a split second before he pulls back. And instantly I know Cade means a lot to this man.
“You look like shit, Pretty,” Scar teases .
Pretty? The nickname catches me off guard; it’s so at odds with Cade’s hard edges.
“Long day,” is all Cade offers, but I catch the way his shoulders tense.
Scar’s attention shifts to me. When Cade remains silent, Scar huffs and steps toward me with a wry smile. “Ah, you must be Luna. I’m Scar. The one who cleans up after him,” he jerks a rough, almost deformed tipped thumb toward Cade.
I chuckle despite myself and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you, Scar.”
Scar glances at my hand, smirks, then pulls me into a bear hug. “Likewise,” he says when he releases me. “So, I gather you’ve been keeping him up at night.”
I shrug, unsure how to take the comment. “Funny, I thought he was the one keeping me up.”
Scar throws his head back and laughs. “Confident. I like that.
Scar’s gaze flickers back to Cade and lingers. “Fuck, Pretty. You look like you could use a strong drink.”
“Or ten.” Cade mutters, then claps him on the shoulder. “Shower and dressing change first.”
Without another word, he turns and heads to the house, leaving me alone with Scar.
There’s a brief, awkward silence as we watch Cade disappear up the stone stairs. When I turn back to Scar, his smile is friendly and open.
“Yes, he’s always an asshole,” Scar says, like we’re sharing an inside joke.
Up close, the differences between them sharpen. His irises are the wrong shade—lighter than Cade’s. His eyes aren’t as deep-set. The cheekbones don’t quite match. He’s leaner than Cade, more wiry. And of course, there’s that scar—the one I’m guessing he’s named after.
I c an’t help returning his smile. “Oh, I figured that already. Besides, he’s hurt.”
Scar raises a tattooed arm, displaying a smear of Cade’s blood from their earlier hug.
“He’s a mess. He’s been a mess for days, actually—the likes of which I’ve never seen.”
His head tilts slightly, studying me like I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. “How on earth did you manage that?”
I throw up my hands with a forced laugh. “I didn’t do anything.”
On the contrary, I’m the one who’s messed up right now.
Scar’s smile widens. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
“I swear. I’m as surprised as you are, Scar.”
His smirk fades to something more serious. “Alright. A word of advice: Don’t fall for him. He won’t catch you. He’ll be gone in a few days.
God, he sounds just like that bitch in my head. Maybe I ought to start listening.
My brows furrow, but before I can say anything, Scar changes the subject.
“Now I imagine this,” he points to his face, “is jarring to see.”
He bends to greet Saint, but I know he’s assessing me and cataloging my responses, and I find myself wanting to do the same. If he’s anything like Cade, then Scar is more than what he appears to be on the surface: intelligent, complex, and ruthless.
I notice while Saint is friendly enough with Scar, letting him get his scratches in, even putting his paws on Scar’s shoulders like he does for Cade, his docked tail barely moves. It’s almost like Saint is putting on an act, which is strange.
Even I can wring more genuine emotion out of Saint, and I’ve only known him days.
Although Saint’s been instructed to be nice to me, so there’s that.
I c hoose my words carefully. “The resemblance is surprising, but if you’re his brother—”
“Is that who he told you I am?” He looks up at me, his expression still casual, but something sharp flickers beneath.
“Yes. He says you’re the closest person to him.”
His blinding smile tells me I’ve given him exactly what he wants to hear. Then he straightens. “Come on. Let’s get you settled. I’ll get you something to drink. And don’t worry, you’ll be safe here.”
“Thanks, Scar.” I return his smile, my initial dislike of him melting under his intriguing charm and straight talking.
I’m still puzzled over Cade’s abrupt departure when the interior of the house stops me cold.
Dark, gleaming wood and plush furnishings, and high ceilings. A huge stone fireplace dominates one wall, while large windows flood the space with late afternoon light. To my right, a fully stocked bar gleams with brass and crystal. It’s all so . . . warm and lived in.
It hits me again how all this could belong to Cade, yet it’s Scar who enjoys it.
Where did he disappear to anyway?
He mentioned a shower and changing his bandages, but I know something is off. Cade doesn’t withdraw from me. He restrains himself, yes. Until I push him. Then he dominates. This feels different, as if he’s deliberately making himself scarce.
“Where’s Cade?” I ask, looking around.
“Hmm.” Scar’s lips quirk. “He’s taking a minute.”
“For what?”
Scar hands me a fruity cocktail. His touch lingers on mine, and I absently note how rough the pads of his fingers are.
“ He needs morphine and about twelve hours of sleep. But don’t worry,” his smile widens, “he’ll do none of those things. My guess is he’ll be down in about twenty minutes.”
“Now,” he says, taking my elbow and guiding me to the couch, his charm wrapping around me like silk. Tell me exactly what happened that night at Enigma.”
The more Scar peppers me with friendly questions, the less I want to tell him. As one easy lie rolls into another, I see his eyes get colder and his smile wider, and I know I was right. He’s more than the face he wears.
And he knows I’m lying to him.
Cade and Scar are both forces of nature, but that’s where the similarity ends. Where Scar is a deceptively gentle rain, Cade is a true, untamed thunderstorm.
Suddenly, I think I know why Cade is keeping his distance. If this is some stupid test like he did with Saint . . . I swear I’ll kill him—after I make it abundantly clear that I’m not looking for measly raindrops. I want the fucking storm.