Chapter 39
BELLAMY
By the time I reach the coffee shop, the day has settled into that easy, salt-bright calm Hollow Beach does so well. The air smells of the ocean.
A few hours ago, I was standing barefoot on cool tile while Gage Calloway watched me finger myself through fogged glass like he’d never seen a woman naked before.
Fifteen minutes after that, Bishop Calloway was in my space, trying to scare me.
What a fucking paradox the Calloways are.
The bell over the coffee shop door jingles as I step inside, greeted by the low hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine.
I order the same thing I always do, exchange a few words with the barista who knows me by name, and wait near the window, sunlight spilling across the floor in wide, lazy bands.
That's when I feel it. The weight of eyes on my back—that unmistakable prickle across my skin like static electricity gathering before a storm. The sensation of being watched. The air in the room shifts, molecules rearranging themselves around a new presence.
Attention.
“Well, well, well. Look what we found.”
I don’t turn right away at the familiar voice. I watch as my reflection softens, my smile growing as I pivot.
Gage stands a few feet away, sunglasses pushed up into messy hair. Cruz is just behind him, hands in his pockets, expression easy and unreadable in the way that’s already become familiar.
I raise a brow. “Are you stalking me now?”
Gage grins like I’ve given him a gift. “Maybe I just like you.”
It’s a callback from a different morning, a different parking lot, when I slid into his car and changed both our trajectories without meaning to.
I laugh because it lands exactly where it’s meant to. “You just saw me.”
His gaze flicks over me—slow, appreciative, unashamed. “Trust me,” he says lightly, “I won’t be forgetting that for a long time.”
“Is that right?” Cruz cuts in, head tilting as he studies us with open curiosity. Something tightens, almost imperceptibly, in the set of his jaw before he smooths it away. If I weren’t watching him already, I’d miss it.
“Hello to you too, Cruz,” I say.
“Bells.” He flashes a smile that could sell sunscreen in a thunderstorm. “You look positively rested.”
My gaze flicks to Gage, question sinking my brows low. He imperceptibly shakes his head, and I look back at Cruz.
“If getting up at four to surf means rested, then sure.” I roll my eyes. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Coffee run,” Gage says.
“Looking for you,” Cruz replies at the same time.
The three of us freeze in a triangle of locked gazes. Cruz's eyebrow ticks up a fraction. Gage's lips twitch at the corner before spreading into something knowing and sharp. He exhales, the sound cutting through the coffee shop's ambient noise, and jerks his chin toward the right. “Let's sit.”
We drift to a small table near the window.
Gage's shoulder brushes mine as he pulls out the chair beside me, his knee settling against mine under the table.
His cologne—something expensive and subtle—mingles with coffee in the air between us.
Across the table, Cruz leans back in his chair, one arm draped over its back, his eyes flicking from my face to Gage's, then back again, the rhythm as steady as a ticking clock.
The barista calls my name. I grab my drink, feeling Gage's gaze lingering on my hips while Cruz's eyes track my face, calculating something behind that easy smile. Cruz shifts forward in his seat, elbows coming to rest on the wooden surface, shoulders squaring.
“We wanted to run something by you,” he says, voice dropping half an octave.
My pulse quickens. I lift the iced latte to my lips, and the first sip is sweet enough to anchor me in the moment. “I'm listening.”
Gage jumps in, eager. He talks about a town off the highway, about shipments and casino chips and an enormous take if it goes well. I listen, asking questions when I need clarity, pressing when something feels thin. He doesn’t falter. If anything, he brightens under scrutiny.
Cruz fills in the gaps. Confirms timelines. Adds a detail Gage didn’t mention, his gaze flicking to his brother like a quiet show of support.
When they finish, I’m halfway done with my latte.
I tap my finger against the condensation on my cup, studying their faces.
“So let me get this straight. The job is intercepting an armored truck full of casino chips from a private security firm, which probably packs more heat than we’ve dealt with.
And then—what? Take them to a casino and cash out? ” I raise an eyebrow.
Cruz drums his fingers along the back of the chair next to him. “That’s where Beck comes in.”
“We need a hacker,” Gage says, his knee pressing into mine.
I look between them. “And everyone’s onboard with us pulling another job together? Coco? Bishop?”
“Whatever it takes to get the job done,” Cruz murmurs, pinning me to the seat with his hazel-eyed gaze.
I nod a few times. “Okay. I’ll bring it to Lola and Beckett,” I say. “If it’s unanimous, we’ll talk next steps.”
Gage's mouth curls at the edges, the tension in his shoulders visibly releasing as he leans back in his chair.
Cruz's eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting a fraction of an inch as he taps his index finger once, twice against the wooden tabletop, the rhythm deliberate as he studies my face with newfound interest.
Around us, a barista calls out names over the hiss of the espresso machine.
A woman laughs too loudly at the table behind Cruz; her bracelets clinking against the tabletop.
Someone's phone chimes with a text. My cup sweats against my palm, and neither Gage nor Cruz stops looking at me.
Gage's knee presses firmer against mine under the table.
Cruz's finger stops tapping, suspended mid-air, his lips parted slightly as if caught between words.
It’s the kind of pause that exists when no one actually wants to be the first person to leave.
Finally, Cruz glances at his watch, the movement almost reluctant. “So,” he says, voice deliberately casual as his eyes flick from me to Gage and back again, “that's the business part handled. Anything else on your schedule today, Bells?”
My shoulders relax, tension I hadn't noticed draining away. I shrug. “I was going to the bookstore a couple of blocks over. Lola had a preorder come in, and she's out of town for a few days.”
Cruz's eyebrows lift, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Bookstore?”
Gage straightens in his chair, nodding with exaggerated seriousness, though his eyes betray him with a gleam. “Love books.”
I snort. “You absolutely do not.”
He presses a hand to his chest, fingers splayed dramatically over his heart. “That's slander.”
Cruz pushes his chair back, the wooden legs scraping against the floor as he stands, stretching to his full height. “Well, I, for one, am deeply invested in this errand now.”
I arch a brow as I push my chair in. “Oh, you’re coming with now?”
“Obviously.” Cruz tosses an arm over my shoulders, tugging me to his side as we head out together.
The three of us falling into an easy formation that feels older than it should—me in the middle, Gage and Cruz on either side of me.
Outside the bookstore, Gage and Cruz both stop abruptly. Cruz's hand shoots out, catching Gage's forearm. His chin tilts toward a man leaning against a parked Audi across the street—expensive watch glinting in the sun, phone pressed to his ear, laughing too loudly.
Gage's shoulders square instantly. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice. “Is that—”
“Trevor Adams,” Cruz confirms, voice equally low. “Looks just fine to me.”
“He does, doesn’t he? Doesn’t look like he’s hurting at all.” Gage’s voice drops to something dangerous.
I glance between them, their sudden stillness making my skin prickle. They've positioned themselves like bookends on either side of me, both staring ahead with identical expressions of cold calculation. When I try to catch their gazes, my neck protests.
“Why would he be hurting?”
Gage points to the guy. “That motherfucker scammed eight little old ladies outta their money. Half of ‘em were in one assisted living unit.”
“And by the time they figured it out, he had magically disappeared. That was six months ago,” Cruz finishes.
“What do you think, brother? Should we give him a proper welcome home?” Gage muses, rolling his shoulders back.
“I think we’d be remiss not to, brother.” Cruz jerks his chin up.
I'm still watching Trevor when warm lips brush the corner of my mouth. I startle, my shoulder bumping against Gage's chest as his cologne—that expensive hint of sandalwood and ocean air—floods my senses.
His breath tickles my ear, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “We'll meet you in the bookstore, Bell.”
The cold air inside the bookstore is a shock after the heat of the sidewalk. The place still smells of dust and vanilla, but something sharper lingers—maybe the faint chemical tang of floor cleaner, or maybe just the metallic edge of anticipation that followed me from the street.
I head straight for the front register, where preorders are shelved, and give Lola’s name. My brain is still half outside, listening for the thud of footsteps.
Once I have her book tucked under my arm, I mill around the store, browsing for anything I think she might like.
I’m flipping through a werewolf romance when they come back. Gage stops short when he sees me. His knuckles are bleeding and there’s smeared blood on his wrists.
My gaze lifts to his face. “You good? Where’s Cruz?”
Cruz appears from behind him like I summoned him by saying his name. “Worried about me, Bells?”
I grin and some tension bleeds out of my shoulders.
“Aw, were you worried about us?” Cruz teases, tossing his arm over my shoulder and looking around at the section we’re standing in.
I look at Gage, my gaze sliding from his intense stare to his hand. “Did you break anything?”
His hand flexes, and he shakes his head slowly, once.
“Did he break anything?” I keep my voice as even as possible, ignoring the way my heart beats faster.
He dips his chin.
“Did you make it hurt?” I tilt my head to the side.
“Yes,” he murmurs.
“Good.” I slide the book I was reading back into the little empty spot on the shelf. “I got what I needed.”
Gage’s eyes linger on mine, his head tilting slightly to one side. The muscle in his jaw tenses, then releases. The corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly, and he blinks once, slowly, like someone adjusting the focus on a camera.
“You sure? Because I think you need”—Cruz reaches over my head, plucking a paperback—”some werewolf smut.” He waggles the cover in front of my face.
I breathe out a quiet laugh. “Like I have time to read.”
“But if you did?” Cruz slides the book into my hands, his fingers lingering against mine.
The cover is objectively stunning, and I run my thumb along the spine before passing it back. “Why not? I’m open to new things.”
Cruz's eyes track slowly from the book to my face, lingering at my lips before meeting my gaze.
The corner of his mouth lifts in that crooked half-smile that transforms his face from merely handsome to something dangerous.
He tucks the book onto a nearby shelf without looking away from me.
“Noted,” he says, voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate directly against my skin.
We walk out into the waning sunlight. My shoulders relax as I step between them, my fingertips brushing against Gage's knuckles—still flecked with someone else's dried blood. Cruz holds the door, his eyes catching mine with a question I answer by stepping closer, not away.
The three of us fall into step on the sidewalk, our shadows stretching long behind us, perfectly aligned.