Chapter 27 A Soft Good Night Leads to a Hard Problem
KADE
I drop my phone onto the nightstand, exhaling slowly. My head falls back against the pillow, but there’s no fucking chance I’m sleeping. Amanda’s voice is still in my ear, sweet and lazy with sleep. The way she murmured good night—soft, trusting—like she used to.
Like I still deserve that from her.
My cock is a goddamn steel rod beneath the sheets, straining against the waistband of my sweats, throbbing with the ache I’ve carried for eight years.
It’s the same every time I talk to her—this relentless, brutal need—but tonight, after hearing her get all soft and warm while I told her just how I’d fuck her?
After listening to the way her breathing slowed, the way she whispered my name?
It’s torture.
I shove the covers down, push my sweats over my hips, and fist my cock in my hand.
Fuck.
The first stroke is too much. I have to squeeze the base to hold back the rush threatening to overtake me. It’s been too long since I’ve really touched her. Since I’ve had anything that felt real.
I close my eyes and let myself remember.
Our wedding night.
Amanda, drunk on champagne and adrenaline, stumbling into our suite still wearing that simple white dress and those pink Versace heels she swore were good luck. The way she laughed when I lifted her onto the bed, all breathless giggles and wandering hands.
Amanda, naked and flushed beneath me in nothing but those pink pumps, legs wrapped tight around my waist, still wearing my ring on her thumb because it was too big for her finger. The way she arched up, desperate, rolling her hips to grind against me because she could never get close enough.
The taste of her lips, soft and sweet with champagne and sugar, like she always tasted, opening for me the second I tilted her chin up. The way she used to sigh into my mouth. How she’d grab at my shoulders, my back, digging her nails in deep, like she was trying to mark me as hers.
I stroke myself slowly, letting the memory take its time.
Her thighs. Her tits. The heat of her, slick and wet, wrapped around my cock while she gasped. The way she used to shudder when I pressed my mouth to her neck, right under her ear, right where I could feel the pulse of her heartbeat against my tongue.
The way she used to come apart for me.
I swear I can still feel her. Even now. Even with nothing but my own hand.
My grip tightens, strokes rougher now, my breathing fast.
I want to be inside her again. I want to hear those little noises she makes when she’s close, want to watch her face go slack with pleasure while she digs her nails into my arms, pulling me in deeper. I want to sink into that perfect, tight heat and never leave.
I want her.
A groan rips from my throat as the pleasure builds, coils tight, ready to snap.
I picture her looking up at me, eyes hazy, lips kiss-bruised and puffy, whispering my name in that wrecked little voice. Not Chad. No. My real name.
I come hard, spilling over my fist, muscles locking as I bury my face in the pillow and let the shudder roll through me.
For a second, I just lie there, breathing ragged, heart still hammering in my chest.
Then I let out a slow, bitter laugh.
Because it’s not enough. It’s never fucking enough.
And it never will be. Not until I’m able to bury my cock deep inside her every night for the rest of my life.
I breathe out slowly, dragging a hand down my face as the aftershocks fade.
My body is loose, sated—for now—but my mind is anything but.
I push up from the bed, grab a towel from the dresser, and clean myself off before tossing it in the laundry bin.
The apartment is dark except for the glow of my monitor.
I cross the room, pull the chair out, and wake the screen with a flick of my fingers.
She’s still there.
The camera feed shows her curled up in bed, the blankets half kicked off. Her breathing is deep, even, her lips parted just a little, like they always were when she was dreaming.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
And I want her.
I lean back in the chair, rubbing a hand over my jaw as I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest. She wants more, too—I could hear it in the way she softened for me tonight, the way she relaxed while I talked to her. She wants to know who Chad is beneath the helmet. But is she ready?
If I told her who I was—if I let her see me, really see me—what would she do?
She hasn’t figured it out yet. I know she never will, because why would she? She buried me a long time ago. Our relationship? Four weeks in Vegas that burned bright and fast, a love so intense it scared us both, until it ended in an inferno that gutted both of us.
And she thinks I did it because I wanted to.
Because I stopped loving her.
She doesn’t know the truth. She doesn’t know what I did for her, how I made her hate me so she wouldn’t chase me down, wouldn’t look for answers that would’ve gotten her killed.
I shut my eyes for a second, forcing myself to breathe past the ache pressing against my rib cage. All the targets are dead. Every single one. I could tell her tonight. Take off the helmet, show her it’s me.
But she’s not ready. I can sense it—the way she holds herself back, the hurt still living in her voice even when she’s laughing.
Eight years of thinking I abandoned her.
Eight years of believing I chose to leave.
If I show up now, rip the mask off, and tell her Chad is Kade, it’ll destroy whatever fragile thing we’re building.
She’ll hate me all over again.
No. I need to prove myself first. As Chad. Show her I can be there for her. That I can care for her the way she deserves. Make her fall in love with Chad, and then when she sees my face, she’ll understand. She’ll forgive me.
She’ll still be mine.
Enough.
I need to focus.
I crack my knuckles, pull up a job file, and get to work.
This one is easy, just a standard vulnerability assessment for a corporate client. The CEO of a mid-tier bank wants to know if their mainframe is hackable, and the answer?
Yeah.
Took me all of ten minutes to slip past their firewalls, crack their encryption, and drop a little flag in their system that proves I was there. If I wasn’t the one doing this, some low-level punk with half my skills could’ve walked off with millions.
I shake my head, write up a quick patch, and send it to the CEO along with my usual warning: Fix this, or the next guy won’t be so friendly.
Another fifty grand earned, easy.
I exhale, leaning back in my chair.
This life—this work—it’s better. Better than what I used to do. Better than what I had to do until last week.
Because now I can stay here.
I can make my money without leaving my apartment for months at a time.
And I can watch over Amanda.
Still provide for her, even when she doesn’t know it.
I push back from the desk. It’s late. Late enough that even I should be getting some sleep. Amanda’s still out cold on the feed, breathing soft and steady. Safe.
That should be enough for me to call it a night.
But then—
Ping.
I frown. My phone never makes that sound.
I glance at the screen. A message. A black screen with white text, sitting there, waiting.
No sender. No number. Just six words:
We should talk. Come to Monarch.
Then, before I can blink, the message disappears.
I try clicking out, swiping between apps, running a quick diagnostic. Nothing. The phone is back to normal, like the message never existed. Like it was a ghost.
Fucking impossible.
No one hacks me.
I sit up straighter, fingers flying over the screen, checking logs, digging into the security layers I built myself—layers no one should be able to bypass. But there’s no trace of an entry point. No malware. No breach.
I exhale slowly, jaw tightening.
Someone wants my attention.
And they want it bad enough to do the impossible.
Well.
They have it now.
I push up from the chair and cross the room in a few strides.
My fingers move on instinct, pulling open the gun case under my bed, selecting two handguns, checking the mags before sliding them into the holsters I strap to my torso.
The weight is familiar, settling over my shoulders, crisscrossed over my chest. Not a burden.
Not anymore. Just a habit. I grab my jacket, shrugging it on over the harness, then snatch my helmet and keys from the dresser.
Outside, my bike is waiting, gleaming under the streetlights. The engine rumbles to life beneath me, low and steady, vibrating through my bones as I rev the throttle.
A late-night ride wasn’t on the schedule.
But I guess I’ve got a meeting to attend.