CHAPTER 9
JAGGER
The city streaked by me in ribbons of neon signs and red brake lights, the wind tearing past as the bike devoured the asphalt. By the time I peeled off my helmet and got up to my penthouse, my shoulders had finally loosened.
That lasted about three seconds.
My hand moved before my brain caught up—gun drawn, arm extended, and the safety already off.
“Fuck—” I stopped short, my instincts flaring as I registered the man stretched out on my couch like he’d been invited, one ankle crossed over a knee and his suit jacket draped with careful precision over the armrest.
Cruz lifted his glass in greeting. “You’re jumpy.”
I took in the amber liquid . . . and then the bottle sitting open on the bar.
My most expensive one, of course.
“You’re a damn cat,” I muttered as the elevator doors slid shut behind me with a soft hydraulic whisper. I dropped my gun on a table, not particularly caring if it went off and shot him. “And far too many people have access to my penthouse.”
He smiled. “You should change the codes more often.”
“I do,” I said, moving to the bar and glaring at the bottle he’d opened. Shaking my head, I resigned myself to the fact that the bottle I’d been saving was now ruined. I picked it up anyway and poured myself a glass. “You somehow get in anyway.”
“We’ve known each other since you were still pretending you didn’t like expensive things,” Cruz said. “Of course I can guess all your passwords.”
I took a long swallow, letting the burn settle before I answered him. “You’re not guessing my passwords, Cruz.”
“What do you mean?” he asked innocently.
“I know you watch me,” I huffed. “I just haven’t had the time to figure out exactly how you’re doing it.”
Cruz’s smile widened just enough to confirm it.
“You and Jace both have boundary issues when it comes to relationships,” I said, gesturing at him with my glass. “And just because I haven’t decided whether I’m impressed or irritated that I haven’t figured out how you’re doing it yet doesn’t mean you should keep doing it.”
Cruz took another slow sip of the scotch I planned to send him an invoice for. “‘Boundary issues’?” he echoed mildly. “I think Jace and I share that trait with you as well.”
I glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Cruz didn’t blink. “Oh, you didn’t think I’d noticed your new nightly routine?” he drawled.
I held his stare but refused to give him anything because he was annoying as fuck.
“She closes the coffee shop. You’re parked across the street. She works the casino. You’re at the bar. She gets on the bus. You follow two cars back. She walks the last block. You wait until the light in her apartment turns on before you leave.”
He took another sip of my scotch. “Repeat.”
I exhaled slowly through my nose. “It’s creepy that you know all of that, by the way. But also, if I have to explain myself, I do all of that because she lives in a bad part of the city.”
“So do half the people we’ve dealt with,” he replied. “You don’t trail them home.”
I leaned back against the bar. “You want to get to the point?”
“The point,” Cruz said, rising and stepping closer, “is that this stopped being casual somewhere around day three.”
I didn’t bother denying it. “She’s married,” I said instead.
Cruz’s expression didn’t change. “I’m aware.”
“She’s exhausted. Overworked. She looks over her shoulder like she expects something to follow her home.”
“And you decided that something might as well be you.”
I met his gaze. “Someone should.”
“That’s never been your philosophy before.”
Silence stretched between us, and the city lights flickered behind him, reflected in the glass like a second skyline suspended in the dark.
“I’m going to get rid of her husband,” I said finally.
Cruz smiled like that was adorable instead of murdery. “Are you?” His voice held curiousity, not incredulity . . . which somewhat made up for my scotch. I liked when he was a supportive king.
“You already had Lawson look into him?” he asked, studying me over the rim of the glass.
“Of course,” I said. “He’s a dead end. No job. No ambition. He’s perpetually high, and all he does is drag her down. He’s using her.”
“Hmm,” Cruz mused as he walked to the window. “And what happens if you actually sit across from her one day and she isn’t what you’ve decided she is?”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He glanced back at me. “What happens if she’s nothing more than a good fuck?”
I growled like he’d insulted her, and he held up his hands innocently.
“I’m just saying . . . you’re making a lot of assumptions here. Maybe you should sleep with her first before you decide to go all Murder, She Wrote.”
“That the latest novel you’ve read, Cruz?” I asked, laughing as I pretended his words weren’t landing.
At first it had been my goal to fuck her and be done.
I’d told myself that what I was feeling was just appetite, the thrill of the chase. She was gorgeous and off-limits. Of course I wanted her.
It would have been really convenient if that’s how it had stayed.
Unfortunately for my criminal record, every time I talked to her, that shifted.
It wasn’t just her face. It was the steel under it. The way she held eye contact, like she refused to shrink. The way she absorbed insult and still stood upright. The way she worked double shifts and never let its toll be visible until she thought no one was looking.
It was the flash of temper she tried to swallow. The intelligence she downplayed. The quiet pride stitched through everything she did.
It was the way she challenged me.
The way she didn’t fawn. Didn’t flatter. Didn’t flinch.
She wasn’t a passing impulse.
I stared into my glass like it held all the answers I was looking for. When I finally spoke, my voice was certain. “She’s everything.”
Cruz made a choking sound, and I did an inner fist pump because it was almost impossible to surprise the guy. “You sound pretty confident, Thatcher.”
“I am.”
He nodded slowly. “You better be certain she’ll never find out,” he said quietly. “Because if she does, there’s no coming back from that.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “She won’t find out.”
He studied me for another beat, then reached for his jacket. “Thanks for the drink . . . and for not shooting me. It’s been fun as ever.”
I huffed. “I’m charging you for that bottle,” I called after him as he stepped into the elevator.
Cruz responded by throwing a stack of bills into the living room.
The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with the city lights and the certainty settling deeper into my bones.
I hadn’t crossed the line yet. But I knew exactly where it was.
And I was done pretending I wouldn’t step over it.
Eden
I woke to the smell of coffee.
That alone was enough to disorient me. Had I fallen asleep at the coffee shop during my shift?
I blinked against the light and rolled onto my side, still exhausted.
Ryan stood beside the bed, holding out a paper cup like it was an offering.
He was already dressed in jeans and a clean shirt, and his hair was still damp from a shower, combed back with a level of care I hadn’t seen from him in months.
“Morning,” he said carefully, as though he was approaching something that might detonate if he stepped wrong.
I pushed myself up on one elbow, the blanket slipping to my waist. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice coming out in a defeated croak.
He winced, then straightened, resolve settling over his features. “I’m getting a job today. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care how many places I have to go. I’m not losing you.”
I’m not losing you.
My fingers tightened slightly around the blanket in my lap. His words were still making me feel nothing . . . maybe he really had broken me this time.
Ryan held the coffee out again, closer this time. I stared at it for a second too long before taking it.
“Thanks,” I murmured half-heartedly.
Relief lit up his face like I’d handed him forgiveness instead of a single syllable. He dropped onto the edge of the bed, his knees bouncing, and energy buzzing off him in tight, restless bursts.
“I mean it, Eden,” he said quickly. “I screwed up. I know that. But I’m fixing it. Starting now.”
I nodded slowly, taking a sip. He’d gone to the cheap place on the corner to get this, the one we used to go to when we first moved here.
“I’m serious,” he said again, searching my face. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
I swallowed and dropped my gaze to the coffee, letting the rising steam give me something to focus on so he wouldn’t see how empty my expression had become.
Trust didn’t break all at once. It wore thin. Frayed. It disappeared in inches, not miles. And once it was gone, no amount of coffee or promises could just . . . put it back where it belonged.
“I hope you do,” I finally told him.
He reached for my hand, intent on offering reassurance, but I pulled it away and curled both hands around the cup instead, using his peace offering as a barrier.
Ryan noticed, of course, but he nodded, taking it as fuel for his determination. “I won’t let you down again,” he said, sliding off the bed. He hesitated for a second like he wanted to say more, then left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stared at the closed door long after his footsteps had faded, then finally pushed myself upright, forcing my body into motion for another day I wasn’t sure I had the energy to face.
When I walked into the living room thirty minutes later, Ryan was sitting on the edge of the couch with his own coffee cup cradled between his hands.
The music was off. The ashtray was gone.
Sunlight crept through the blinds and caught on his face in a way that made him look younger.
Lost. Like he was waiting for instructions he didn’t trust himself to follow.
Ryan looked up when he saw me. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echoed.
He gestured vaguely with the cup. “I’ve been thinking.”
That made my stomach tighten, but I stayed where I was.
“When I get a job,” he continued earnestly, “you should quit one of yours. At least one. Maybe both, if I can swing it. You could sign up for classes. Community college, night classes, whatever you want.”
I blinked. “Ryan—”
“No,” he said quickly, standing. “Listen. That’s how it should’ve always been. You shouldn’t have been killing yourself like this. You were always smarter than me anyway.”
I didn’t know what to say, and he took a step closer, then another, gauging the distance, waiting to see if I’d pull back. “You should’ve been the one going somewhere,” he added. “I just . . . got lost.”
His words should have cracked something open in me.
They should have felt like relief.
I searched for it—for hope, for gratitude, for that old rush of maybe this is the turning point. I dug for anger, too, for resentment, for anything sharp enough to cut through my haze.
But nothing surfaced.
All I could feel was that flat, echoing quiet.
My nails bit into my palms, and I waited for my chest to react. For my throat to burn. For my eyes to sting.
There was nothing there.
A flicker of unease slid through me. What was wrong with me? This was everything I had asked for months ago. Effort. Accountability. A plan. Him finally admitting I had been carrying too much.
And all I felt was . . . numb.
Ryan reached for me tentatively and then pulled me into his arms like he was afraid I might disappear if he didn’t.
His mouth found mine, and I kissed him back because it felt like the right thing to do.
I tried to pour everything I wanted into that kiss.
The years. The promises. The girl who’d once believed getting out was inevitable if you just loved someone hard enough.
For a moment, it almost worked.
He held me like he meant it . . . like he was trying to drag us back to a place we’d already wandered too far from.
I kissed him back and let myself pretend that this could be the beginning instead of a last attempt.
That maybe believing him wasn’t na?ve. That maybe this time, he would follow through.
But that distant, unreachable part of me was also wondering . . . how many chances love was allowed before it stopped being love and turned into something else entirely.
He finally pulled away, and I studied his face, trying to remember what loving him had felt like, trying to drag even a spark of it back to the surface.
But it was like reaching into a room that had already been emptied.
Bare walls and . . .
Nothing.