Chapter 10
Sloane
A week later, nothing feels simple anymore, which is saying something, considering nothing about this place was simple to begin with.
My desk is covered in files again, neat stacks spreading outward like I can build order just by arranging things correctly.
Work continues to be my solace, a way to escape my thoughts.
For the most part, it’s working, at least when I’m alone.
But I’ve not truly been alone since we got here.
The guys creep into my thoughts no matter how much I try not to let them.
I close my eyes briefly, pressing my fingers against my temple, trying to focus on the numbers on the screen instead of the memory of Rook’s hands, the weight of him, the way everything between us shifted from tension into something hotter, sharper, and impossible to ignore.
Every day since then has been the same, explosive, intense, a collision of control and want that neither of us seems capable of walking away from.
The sex is every bit as feral and animalistic as the first time, leaving me marked and sore yet always yearning for more.
Yet still, we argue. Like it resets something.
Or maybe we both need the friction just as much as everything else.
It’s exhausting, and addictive, and probably unhealthy.
Yet it’s not my relationship with Rook that’s bugging me and keeping me up at night.
It’s Cruz. I haven’t seen him properly in days, not really.
He’s around—I know that. I hear him downstairs and catch glimpses of him in the garage or crossing the yard, but every time I step into a room, he’s already leaving.
If I try to catch his attention, he’s always too busy, gone before I can protest. He’s deliberately avoiding me, and I don’t understand why, which I hate.
I don’t like not understanding things. I don’t like feeling like I missed something, or worse, that I misread the situation.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen without seeing it.
Was it just… a moment for him? Something easy and fun, was it purely to piss Rook off?
Did it really mean so little to him that he could just walk away from it?
That thought sits wrong in my chest, because it didn’t feel like that.
It didn’t feel casual. It didn’t feel like anything.
But now it feels like he regrets it. He’s distant or simply uninterested.
I don’t know which is worse. It’s occurred to me that maybe Rook has warned him off, but that can’t be right, since he said himself that they like to share and that Rook would get over it.
Yet, it seems as if Cruz is avoiding Rook almost as much as me, and anytime I’ve tried to raise the subject with Rook, he’s silenced me with kisses.
A knock sounds softly on my door before it opens. Boone opens it slowly, taking in his surroundings in his usual stoic manner. He leans against the frame, grease smudged across one forearm, expression steady as always. “You’ve been up here all day.”
“I’m working.” Boone has been kind to me, kinder than I deserve, and I berate myself for the sharp tone that spills out without meaning to. It’s not his fault I’m stressed.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been feeling confused about Boone.
Cruz led me to believe that all three guys were interested in me.
Rook certainly acted on it when he found out I was attracted to him, so why has Boone said nothing?
He’s acting the same as he did before this whole mess, which I suppose I should be grateful for, but I can’t help feeling somewhat rejected.
Boone studies me. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, his eyes lingering on the empty coffee pot on the desk, the only thing I’ve consumed today, before meeting mine again in silent reproach. Which is somehow more effective than arguing.
I sigh and push back from the desk. “Five minutes,” I say.
He nods once.
We end up outside. Boone purchased two burritos from the street vendor nearby before coming to speak to me; they’re wrapped in tin foil and still warm.
He hands one to me, sitting down on the bench that sits in front of the clubhouse.
His quiet confidence that I would cave in and eat both frustrates and endears me, like he knows what I need better than I do.
The stubborn streak in me is tempted to refuse and say I’m not hungry, that’s what I would do to Rook, but then Boone unwraps his burrito and takes a bite, the smell makes my stomach rumble, and my resolve crumbles.
I grab the burrito and sit down beside him, hungrily tearing at the foil and taking a big bite.
It’s good, and I groan with pleasure. Boone chuckles but says nothing.
The late afternoon sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the compound. We eat in companionable silence. Boone never forces conversation, and I’m grateful for the moment’s peace.
Jessy is sitting on a crate nearby, deeply involved in explaining something to two mechanics who are listening like she’s delivering a lecture.
Boone watches her for a second, a soft smile plays on his lips. “She’s got strong opinions.”
“She gets that from me,” I admit with a wry smile.
He huffs a quiet sound that might be a laugh before falling silent again. I study his handsome face, strong and proud, and unreadable to me.
“What do you want?” I ask, the words tumbling out unexpectedly.
He glances at me, a slight frown on his face. “What do you mean?”
“I guess I’m just wondering how you fit into all this,” I say, gesturing slightly toward the clubhouse, the men, the entire setup. “The future. What does it look like for you?”
Boone considers that. Longer than most people would, in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve never known Boone to rush anything, always choosing his words carefully. “Same as now,” he says finally. “Just… steadier, peaceful.”
“That’s it?” I feel almost dejected by the response. Boone is a simple man, and there’s nothing wrong with being content with what you have, but for some reason, I was expecting him to have hidden depths. Perhaps a deep desire for a family, after all, I’ve seen the way he is with Jessy.
He shrugs. “What more could I want? We have a place that’s ours. People we trust. A family.”
“What about a wife, or an old lady, or kids?” I probe.
His gaze moves to Jessy now. “That would be nice.” I shouldn’t be surprised when he doesn’t feel the need to elaborate beyond that, much to my frustration.
I study him. “And sharing?” I ask carefully. I realize that if I want to get a straight answer from him, I’m going to have to be more direct with my approach. Boone would be every defense attorney’s dream, a witness who doesn’t elaborate or answer more than exactly what is asked of them.
His gaze shifts to me. “You mean you.”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “We don’t just want to share women for the night. We share everything,” he continues. “If it works.”
“If it works,” I repeat.
He nods. “No point fighting over something that’s better shared.”
Something tightens in my chest. “That’s… very pragmatic.”
“It’s real,” he says simply. “Might be unconventional, but it works for us, not least because we all seem to fall for the same woman.”
I want to ask if that means they all want me.
Not just sexually, but an actual relationship.
I want to ask who they’ve fallen for in the past and why it didn’t work.
I want to ask how it could work with us, especially with a child involved, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.
Somehow, asking those questions would make this real, and I need time to think about what I want and what’s right for my daughter.
“Rook didn’t tell me that.”
Boone’s mouth twitches slightly. “Rook doesn’t explain much.”
No, he doesn’t, which brings me back to the other problem. “He’s keeping things from me,” I say.
Boone’s expression doesn’t change, but he doesn’t deny it.
“That’s not acceptable,” I continue. “If I’m part of this, I need access to the same information.”
“He’s trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need that kind of protection.”
Boone looks at me then, his soulful eyes piercing through my armor. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You do.”
I don’t respond because I don’t like that answer, and I don’t like that part of me that knows he might be right.
Maybe I’m not strong enough to deal with this situation alone.
But a part of me won’t let myself be vulnerable, won’t let them protect me, because the last time I asked a man for protection, he ran away.
Instead of sticking by my side while I prosecuted the biggest case of my career, my husband left.
He said I was a fool to go up against Valentin Escar.
He tried to take Jessy, but I won custody.
After that, I thought he’d stick around for her sake, but he turned tail and ran.
Now I can’t help but wonder if things would be different if he’d stayed or if I’d listened to his advice and dropped the case.
All of these thoughts bring up emotions I’m not ready to deal with, so I default to old habits, putting up an emotional wall around myself again.
“Thanks for the burrito,” I say abruptly, getting up. “Dinners in an hour, Jessy,” I call to my daughter before fleeing back inside, heading for the sanctuary of my room.
Back in my room, I sit down at my desk again, pulling up the files I was working on earlier. I need to focus, regain some control. That’s what will get me out of this situation and keep Jessy and me safe. I don’t need anyone else to help protect us beyond what living here provides.
The details of the case fill the screen, and I slip back into my familiar routine, studying corporate filings and financial transfers. Studying the numbers is simple, solid, and uncomplicated until it isn’t.
My eyes catch on a structure buried three layers deep in the document, and I spot a familiar pattern. Too familiar. I lean forward slightly.
“No,” I murmur.
But there it is, the same arrangement. Shell companies are stacked in a specific sequence.
Money moving in tight loops before disappearing into clean accounts with different names.
This has the same bones—my pulse quickens.
I’ve seen this before. I built a case around this exact structure, the case against Valentin Escar.
I start pulling the thread, quietly and methodically, making no assumptions, just following the data where it leads. The deeper I go, the clearer it becomes. The similarity isn’t a coincidence, it’s a replication or perhaps a continuation.
I build the file as I go, organizing everything into a new folder, linking documents, and mapping ownership chains. Hours pass without me noticing. Until, finally, like a knot finally becoming untangled, a name appears: Harlan Briggs.
My stomach drops as I stare at the screen. No. That’s not possible. Harlan Briggs is a respected local developer. A pillar of the community, he can’t possibly be dirty. Except that the ownership chain leads straight to him, or close enough, there is irrefutable evidence that ties him to Escar.
Could Harlan Briggs really be Escar’s partner, an external operator, running the same system from the outside?
I pull up property records and cross-reference addresses.
My breath slows, becoming sharp and focused.
The office location loads on the screen, and I blink, checking it again to make sure I’m not imagining it.
Harlan Briggs’ office is just four blocks away from the clubhouse. He’s been their neighbor for years.
I sit back slowly, contemplating what this means. If he’s the partner on the outside, the man who organized the attempt on my life and killed the US Marshals tasked with protecting me, then there’s no way he is just four blocks away and doesn’t know where I am.
He’s been close all along, not reacting or chasing me.
Which can only mean one thing—he’s building something bigger.
His involvement with Escar goes beyond me.
The implications settle in my chest like ice.
There are years’ worth of evidence here that suggests what I uncovered against Escar was just the tip of the iceberg.
Perhaps the attack wasn’t just retaliation; it was to stop me digging any further.
Somehow, my attempts to protect myself have only entrenched me deeper into this mess. Like quicksand, the more I’ve tried to free myself, the further I’ve sunk.