49
Cade
Luna sleeps like a storm passed through her—hair wild across my pillow, lips swollen from my kisses, thighs bracketing the leg I’ve slipped between them, sticky with our combined juices.
My body half-covers hers, possessing her even in sleep. One hand is splayed across her belly, feeling each breath. The other is entwined with hers above her head.
The emerald ring sits in my jacket. Still. I should have given it to her last night. But lust got in the way—repeatedly.
Two days ago, I was supposed to be ending Antonov. One phone call to this woman and my priorities snapped into place.
I left the hotel room, heading for the Bolshoi Theater, but somehow ended up in a jewelry store, staring at the deep green stone like a bullet to its target.
It’s the exact shade as the Druids’ emblem—fitting for a woman who’s claimed both sides of me. The moment I saw it, I knew with every bone in my body it was made for Luna. Just like I was made for her.
Alien emotions spear through my heart: Uncertainty. Fear.
I stare down at her. This woman takes everything I give her—my darkness, my violence, my passion—and demands more. I know without a doubt she can take this too.
She can. The question is, will she?
There’s an eerie quiet as the rhythmic thud of fists on leather suddenly stops. Scar’s been destroying the punching bag all night, his rage a counterpoint to my pleasure.
Can’t blame him.
Luna and I weren’t exactly quiet when we burst in last night, drenched from the cold and half-naked, heading first to the fireplace, then the kitchen, then the stairs. It just blurs from then on in a marathon of laughter and food and arguments about Nico and Phoenix’s offers.
I hear banging cupboards, swearing, then running faucets. Scar’s in the kitchen. Christ. I promised him my complete focus after Moscow. That Luna would be like Kat. A partner and helper but not someone who’d get between him and me.
Another promise shattered.
Right now, there’s no life for Scar to shadow anymore. And the life I have with Luna isn’t something that can be shared or duplicated.
A plaintive whine interrupts my thoughts. Saint. He’s right outside the door, his nails clicking against the floor in a restless rhythm. Pacing. That’s unusual for him first thing in the morning.
I ease my leg from between Luna’s thighs, careful not to wake her as I untangle our fingers and get dressed.
The moment I crack open the door, Saint’s on me, his body pressing against my legs.
“ Hey, hey, mate.” I slip out, shutting the door quietly behind me. Saint’s behavior is off. He’s normally stoic in the mornings, but today he’s all nervous energy.
I lead him downstairs, heading out to run off whatever has him wound so tight. However, I catch sight of our discarded clothes strewn near the fireplace, so I make a quick detour to scoop them up.
As I grab my leather jacket, something hard drops from one of the pockets, hitting the wooden floor with a thunk.
My kill list.
Something else I wanted to give Luna.
Somehow, it’s still intact despite last night’s rain and all our antics. I shove it into my sweatpants pocket and grab the rest of the clothes off the floor.
“Come on, mate. Let’s go.”
I lead him into the pre-dawn air, but he refuses to patrol, sticking to my side like a shadow. Every few steps, he stops to push at me, as if herding me back inside.
“What’s up with you, mate?” I crouch and he immediately climbs into my lap—all hundred and fifty pounds of him. His whines grow sharper, his paws scrabbling at my chest. When I stand, he grabs my wrist in his mouth—not biting, just holding.
Something’s wrong.
Saint’s always been smart, more attuned to danger than any human. But this? This isn’t just anxiety. This is terror.
I head back inside, Saint practically glued to me. The kitchen light spills into the hallway through the partially open door. Faint sounds of ice clinking against glass tell me Scar is still in there.
I find him staring out through the kitchen window into the yard, unmoving as a statue. He must have been watching Saint fumble through his morning routine. He whirls at my entrance, vodka sloshing in his glass. His knuckles are raw and bleeding. Christ, he looks wrecked.
I move toward him, but Saint cuts me off, nearly knocking me back. “What the fuck, Saint Michael?” I look up at Scar. “What’s the matter with him? He’s been acting crazy since last night.”
Scar’s voice comes out as flat as his expression, which I recognize to be intense irritation. Scar is nothing if not controlled. “He was fine until you came back last night. Acting like a savage.” His lip curls. “What are you turning into, Cade? You act like you’ve never seen a woman before.”
I let that one slide. He’s not wrong. Luna and I need to talk about keeping things more . . . domesticated. Or maybe just find somewhere with actual privacy. All I know is I’m mad for her, completely gone, and she doesn’t help matters.
“We’ll take it elsewhere tonight—”
Saint’s whine cuts through my apology, his body trembling against my legs as he tries to herd me back.
“You want to see Luciana? Is that it?” I try for casual, ignoring his whine. “She’s tired—”
The glass explodes in Scar’s grip. Blood drips between his fingers, and his eyes—so much like mine—look haunted.
“Scar. Talk to me.”
“Talk?” His laugh comes out broken, like everything else about him right now. “You want to talk? You’ve nailed my coffin shut and now you want to talk.”
“You understood that this . . . arrangement couldn’t last forever. Hawkins is dead.”
Another laugh “And whose fault was that? I fucking warned you, you selfish son of a bitch.”
“This was happening regardless. The Division has always been a shell, controlled by—”
“ By the fucking Beast of New York. Yeah, you managed to throw in a two-word explanation in between your fuckathon last night.” More blood drips, joining the vodka on the floor. His hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cuts because his threshold for physical pain is sky-high.
“The Beast had a bone to pick with me. He was going to execute me, eventually.”
Scar lifts a bloody finger. “But he would have let you live longer if you hadn’t defied orders for her.” His mouth twists. “Too bad I can’t ask if it was worth it since you get to have your ass saved by your precious family and then sail into the fucking sunset with her while I take the fall.”
The bitterness in his voice cuts deep. “Derek, listen, you have your own—”
“Derek?” Scar spits the name like poison.
“Derek!” He thunders, making Saint flinch. “Fuck you, Pretty! Derek Sullivan is dead. You killed him. We killed him together.” His voice breaks. “All that remains of him is Cade Quinn.”
I snap, finally letting my frustration show, “Well, current events require Cade Quinn to move the fuck on!”
“Oh yeah, to your saccharine-sweet small town.” His voice drops to something lethal, something familiar. I taught him that tone. “The only place I can’t follow you.”
“Unfortunately.”
Scar nods. “I see. Can I ask you something, Pretty? Why not Chicago? Vitelli made you a brilliant offer. I could be useful to you there. Luna lives in Chicago; you could even be with her there if that’s what you want.”
Scar takes a step forward. “But no, you deliberately chose the backends of nowhere just to get rid of me.”
The truth sits raw, and I can’t bring myself to deny it. I chose Harmony precisely because Scar can’t follow. Because I want Luna t o myself, without my shadow hovering at the edges of our life.
“Derek, listen—”
“CADE!” His roar bounces off the walls.
I move toward him, maneuvering around Saint’s frantic resistance. “Derek. You can have another life. Take everything—money, bonds, properties. Take Kat, take all I have, and go. Leave Cade Quinn behind.”
He scoffs, and it almost sounds like a broken sob. “I can’t. It won’t be enough.”
“Yes, it is. Kat loves you—not Cade Quinn—the real you. Derek Sullivan.”
He stares at me, and Christ, the anguish in his eyes guts me. His hands shake as he pinches the bridge of his nose—a gesture so familiar it hurts. “You gave me everything, Cade—a name, a purpose, a life.” His voice cracks. “And now you want to take it back?”
“I’m not taking anything. I’m setting you free.”
“Free?” His laugh splinters like the glass he crushed. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
I move closer. “Then help me understand. You can have a new identity, your own woman, your own—”
“My own what? My own life?” His eyes shine with tears I’ve never seen before. “Everything I am exists in your shadow. Being you was never the goal, Cade.”
Something in his voice makes my blood run cold, but I reach for him anyway, pulling him into a hug like I’ve done a hundred times before. “Derek—”
“I love you, Pretty!” The words come out raw and broken. “You stupid, blind bastard. I’ve always loved you.”
The confession feels like a knife to the gut. My entire body goes rigid as understanding suddenly crashes on me, merciless and unforgiving.
All these years, I thought . . . Christ.
“You really didn’t know?” His laugh comes out sharp and bitter, each word dissecting the years I thought I understood him. “Being you was never enough. Having you . . . that’s what kept me going. And now you’re choosing her.”
My stomach lurches, threatening to empty itself. Three years of loyalty. Three years of camaraderie. Every glance, every subtle brush of his hand . . . and I never saw it. Not this. Not him.
And yet, a memory breaks through my denial like an icy finger. The day I had Luna on her knees before me. Scar was there, watching me—not her. Me. The intensity in his gaze . . . it makes sense now. All of it does. I just refused to see it.
But a flash of lust doesn’t always mean truth, does it? Does it?
A chilling realization grips me: Scar no longer sees Luna as a distraction to me. He sees her as a rival . An obstacle standing in the way of what he wants.
And if there’s one thing Scar has always been lethal at, it’s removing obstacles.
Luna may just be in the most dangerous place she could ever be—because if it comes to it, I don’t know if I can stop Scar.