Chapter 33
MARCUS
The Station Bar is only half awake when I get there, that in-between hour where the stools are warm, and the stories haven’t started growing yet.
The bartender looks up from polishing a glass. “The usual?”
I glance at the bottle he’s already reaching for. Then shake my head. “Make it something stronger.”
He pauses, then arches a brow. “You want the bourbon with the smoky finish or the one that punches like a regret?”
I don’t blink. “The regret.”
He nods, pours a generous double, and slides it across. “Rough night?”
“Trying not to make it worse,” I say, lifting the glass to my lips.
Liam and Max arrive ten minutes later, both of them stopping short when they spot me already seated with my jacket off, my glass halfway gone.
“Well,” Max drawls, sliding onto the stool beside me, “look at that. The prodigal control freak, early for once.”
“Guess I’m not saving the world tonight,” I say. “Thought I’d try punctuality.”
Liam snorts as he takes the seat on my other side. “Keep that up, and we’ll start expecting it.”
We settle into the easy rhythm—the bar noise, our shoulders brushing, insults exchanged.
Max lifts my glass an inch with a finger. “This isn’t your usual.”
“I’m branching out,” I reason.
“Into what?” he asks, peering at it. “Emotional growth?”
Liam chuckles, but then his gaze lingers on me a beat too long, and the smile fades just enough.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s seen this trick before. “Because you came in hot with the banter. And because even Marcus Lockwood doesn’t bounce back from that kind of mess overnight.”
I take a drink. It burns. Good. “Overnight?”
Max doesn’t push, and Liam doesn’t either. That’s the thing about them. They know when to joke and when to wait.
It’s been days since the debacle. The fake Wolf vanished without a trace. The blue Mazda turned out to be a rental. Stolen ID. No CCTV.
The glass is empty before I realize it.
“Time heals,” I say, aiming for casual. But missing by a mile.
Liam taps the bar. “Another round.”
I don’t argue.
Because this is how I stay upright. Not by fixing everything, not by outrunning it, but by sitting between two men who know me well enough to call bullshit…and close enough not to demand the truth before I’m ready.
I swirl the drink in my hand. “There’s another delay with the Marrowby demo. Asbestos turned up in the core. Whole thing’s paused until it’s cleared.”
“That’s what’s got you pissed?” Liam asks, not buying it.
I shrug. “It’s a setback.”
“It’s asbestos,” Max says. “As far as project delays go, it’s a boring one.”
“I care about the damn project, no matter what people think,” I say. “Publicity stunt, whatever. I want to help those kids. And now it’s crawling through red tape and—”
I stop myself. Even the Hunts know it’s not about the Bronx.
Liam watches me for a moment, then leans back slowly. “Maybe you just miss the thing that already crumbled.”
I don’t respond.
The silence turns uncomfortable, so I cut it. “I’m going to London tomorrow,” I announce.
Max looks up. “Tomorrow?”
I nod. “CQC registration came through for Avelis. Everything’s approved. The expansion’s green-lit.”
“That’s great news,” Liam says. “Are you planning to orient the new recruits yourself?”
“Nah, I’ll have Madsen handle it,” I say, naming my head surgeon in Los Angeles. “They’re not rookies. They have decades of experience. They just need to learn how Avelis operates. How I operate.” After a moment, I add, “Besides, I’m going to lay low for a while.”
Max narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Mary Peters.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Max leans in, almost whispering, “Shit. Mariposa Lilly?”
Liam tenses beside me.
I nod. She had another auction recently at The Trap. I wasn’t involved, but Liam and Max wouldn’t stop talking about it. They said it was…out of this world.
Max exchanges a glance with Liam, then back at me. “So what’s she got to do with your grand disappearing act?”
“I’ve asked her to arrange one of her specialties. The kind of holiday where you’re just…gone.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t have to.
Max opens his mouth to ask the question I know is coming. And so does Liam. But I beat them to it.
“Gents,” I say, rising from my stool, “I’ve got some packing to do.”
Max says something on my way out, some attempt to lighten the mood, but I don’t answer. Liam watches me go, and I know he knows. He always does.
The car’s waiting out front. I sink into the leather and roll my neck. The leather’s cold. But the space beside me is worse. Too empty.
For a second, I imagine her there. Midnight.
Her head tilted toward the window, her lips painted like sin. Her eyes were blindfolded, but her body was a live wire. Every inch of her was strung tight with anticipation, still and waiting.
The thing with Midnight—Iris—is not over. It’s just finished. She never wanted Marcus Lockwood. She wanted the myth, the mask, and the rules I wrote so she could break them.
And I thought I could do it, wipe every trace of the men who came before me from her body. Fuck them out of her head and mark her so completely that all she could remember was Wolf.
Now?
I’d give anything to erase him from her. To strip him away, piece by piece, until all that’s left is me. But I can’t.
I built him too well. And she fell for the illusion.
All I can do now is disappear and let her heal. Let the damage settle where it belongs. On me.
I unlock my phone and type out a message to Falcon Security. I won’t leave her vulnerable when I’m not around.
Female client. Discreet surveillance only. No contact unless there is an immediate risk.
I stop there, my finger hovering over the screen.
Because there are sentences you never expect to have to write, especially ones that amount to “there’s another me loose in the world.”
So I type carefully:
Do not defer to a visual identification of me or anyone claiming to act on my behalf.
Engagement requires confirmation through secure channels only.
Client is not to be informed.
I hit send.
And then I sit there, staring at the empty seat beside me.
It doesn’t help. But at least she’ll be safe.