28. Maya
Maya
I've had a night to think about it.
Friday was the day he sent the data to Richard. Saturday is when I deal with what he did.
That night, I spend it at my apartment, the first night away from Elm House since this started. Four locks. Two deadbolts. The chain. The bar. I lie in my bed with every latch thrown and stare at the ceiling until my breathing evens out and the plan sits locked behind my teeth.
At 2 PM, I arrive at Elm House. I walk. The route from my apartment takes twelve minutes, and I clock the exits on every block the way I map every route, but today I keep walking toward him.
Cole is in the kitchen when I arrive, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, garlic sharp in the air. Saturday afternoon. Cloves on the board, pan heating on the stove.
He looks up, and the knife stops moving. His gaze moves over my face before I say a word.
"You're back," he says carefully.
"Back," I say. "Where is he?"
"Upstairs. Film session." Cole sets down the knife, and his body shifts into alertness before his face changes. "Maya. What's the plan?"
"I have one. I need you to trust me. And I need you to go upstairs, get a condom from the nightstand, and bring him downstairs."
The sentence lands. Cole studies my face for two seconds.
"Kitchen?" he asks.
"Kitchen."
At the stairs, he stops on the second step and turns back.
"Is this what I think it is?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"I've been sure since 3 AM."
He nods once and goes upstairs. I hear the shift of movement above me, the nightstand drawer opening and closing, Cole's voice, low and clipped, and Dante's chair pushing back.
I stand at the counter, in my spot. The spot where I lean and drink tea and watch Cole cook. I'm choosing it now because I need the counter edge solid against my spine for what comes next.
They come in together, Cole first.
Behind him, Dante follows with his jaw set and his shoulders locked an inch too high. His gaze takes in the kitchen first. Counter. Table. Chair. Me.
Then it stops.
The recognition hits him so cleanly his face goes still. He knows I came back with a plan.
"Sit down," I say to Dante. "That chair."
He sits. No argument.
"I spent last night at my apartment," I say. "First night alone in weeks. I lay in bed and thought about what you told us yesterday. The 2 AM call. Someone deeper in your father's world. The data you got, the data you sent to Richard, the terms you broke to get it."
"Maya—"
"I'm talking."
His mouth closes.
"The surveillance data kept looping in my head.
My father sitting on a bench with a sightline to the Chronicle entrance.
Forty-five minutes. Every afternoon. Learning my patterns the way he learned my mother's patterns, the way he learned the rhythm of a household before he decided when to hit.
" My fingers curl against the counter edge, and I make them loosen.
"Richard has the data. The hearing is Wednesday.
The case is stronger because of what you did. That's a fact I can't unmake."
Dante's palms are on his thighs. Flat. Still.
"Something else kept looping too. What you said yesterday.
That you watched me scan the walkways. The head turn.
The way I survive. You said the watching broke something.
" I look at him. "You're right that it's there.
I scan every path between the Chronicle and the rink.
I check the benches. I count the people walking behind me.
I've been doing it since I was thirteen, and I may never stop.
That's mine. That protocol belongs to me.
It kept me alive, and it keeps me functional, and you don't get to treat it like something broken in your hands. "
"I know."
"Before I say something, I need you to hear it without defending. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"What you did—the call, the surveillance, the decision made at 2 AM while I slept—is the same kind of control my father uses."
Dante's palms press harder into his thighs.
"The intent was different. You are different. You hired surveillance on the man who hurt me. He is the man who hurt me. The distinction matters." My throat tightens around the next word, and I force it through anyway. "But the way you did it, Dante."
His face doesn't move.
Good.
"I woke up and learned that a man I sleep next to had already decided what was best for me.
Had already acted. Had already made choices in a room I wasn't allowed to enter.
" I keep my voice level and press my fingertips hard enough into my palms to stop the tremor.
"I've woken up to that before. In a different house.
With a different man. And the fact that you love me doesn't change what it felt like. "
His jaw tightens. His fingers dig into his thighs. I can see the words building behind his teeth, the defense, the pushback, the I am not your father. I saw him hold it back yesterday. Today he holds it again because I asked him to.
"I hear you," he says, rough. "What I did is the problem. I hear you."
"Good."
I breathe. Four in. Four hold. Four out.
"Now here's what happens next."
I turn to Cole. He's at the counter, braced on the edge, watching. Reading. His posture has shifted, weight forward, alert.
"Cole," I say. "Come here."
Crossing the kitchen, he stops in front of me, searching my face. I put my palm flat on his chest, and he covers it with his own.
I pull free.
"I need him to watch," I say, low enough that it's only for Cole.
Cole's gaze darkens. "Whatever you need," he says.
His thumb presses once against my knuckles.
My gaze goes to Dante. He's in the chair, palms on his thighs, gaze locked on us.
"You took my control," I say to Dante. "At 2 AM, in this kitchen, while I slept forty feet away, you made a decision about my life. Acted without asking. Let me sleep and decided you knew best."
I take Cole's face in my hands.
"Now you sit there. You don't move. You don't touch. You don't get to participate. And you don't look away."
I kiss Cole.
The kiss is deliberate and open-mouthed.
My fingers push into Cole's hair and press my body against his. Cole grips my waist. He kisses back without hesitation, his mouth opening under mine, his fingers digging in.
The kiss fills the kitchen. The wet sound of it. Our breathing. The small noise Cole makes against my mouth that he would normally muffle if we were alone.
He lets it out now.
I pull back. His expression has changed. His fingers flex once at my waist, and his breath roughens against my mouth.
With Dante watching from the chair his 2 AM choice put him in, I pull my shirt over my head.
Cole's hands slide across my ribs. His mouth lands on my neck, on the spot below my ear, and I arch into him. My fingers go to his belt. His jeans open under them, and I wrap my hand around him.
The sound he makes is low and rough enough to fill the kitchen.
I look at Dante.
Both of his hands are fists on his thighs. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscle jumps. His stare is locked on us, burning. And lower, his jeans show exactly what watching is doing to him, what he can't hide and can't act on.
Cole lifts me onto the kitchen table. My hips lift as his hands work my jeans down. He pulls a condom from his pocket, tears it open, and rolls it on while Dante stays in the chair.
I wrap my legs around Cole's waist and pull him in. He pushes into me, and I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the shock of having him inside me while Dante sits three feet away with his hands locked to his thighs.
My fingers grip the edge of the table. Cole holds my hips. The first thrust shifts the table on the floor.
"Look at me," I say to Cole.
He does. Blue eyes, dark now.
"Just me."
He moves. Deep, slow, the rhythm deliberate.
The wall between our rooms is gone, but nine years of wanting is still there in the way he holds my hips and waits for my next breath.
Cole is inside me, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat. My body runs hot and tight, the pulse between my legs building on every thrust, my skin flushing from collarbone to navel.
"You feel incredible," Cole says, his voice honest and rough, every word carrying in the quiet room. "Maya—"
His mouth finds my collarbone. The rhythm builds, his hips and mine, the table rocking beneath us, my breathing going ragged. His hand slides between us, finds my clit, circles. The sound I make is sharp enough to cut through the room.
I look at Dante.
He's watching with his hands in fists. His eyes are bright, wet at the edges, the tendons in his neck pulled tight.
His focus drops to Cole's hands on my body, then lifts to my face.
Three feet away. He can't touch either of us.
His body strains against the stillness he promised, the arousal visible and unaddressed.
Cole's rhythm changes, faster and deeper, his hand working my clit in circles that match his thrusts.
I'm close.
"Come for me," Cole says against my throat.
I come on the kitchen table with Cole's hand between my legs, his body inside mine, and Dante three feet away in a chair. The orgasm tears through me, and I don't muffle it. The sound comes out full-throated and sharp enough to make Cole's grip tighten.
Cole follows. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his hands gripping my hips, the sound rough and broken and honest.
Just Cole. The room quiet around us.
His breathing against my neck. My fingers in his hair. The table shifted from where it started. Dante in the chair.
When Cole pulls back, his thumb crosses my cheekbone. He takes care of the condom, fixes his jeans, then steps back to the counter.
Gives me the room.
I stay on the edge of the table and look at Dante.
His face is wrecked. The composure gone.
Dante sits in the chair with his fists still on his thighs and his breathing held too carefully, like even that belongs to me until I give it back. His eyes are red at the edges. His fists stay on his thighs. Each breath comes too carefully. Even now, his gaze stays on me.
"The man you hired," I say. "You ended it yesterday. Confirmed?"