Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
PRESENT
The drive to Monarch Hills is silent, save for the hum of the tires on the road and the occasional rustle from Theo in the backseat. He clutches Keeper’s leash tightly, even though the dog is sprawled out beside him, dozing peacefully. I glance at him in the rearview mirror, his blue eyes fixed on the passing scenery. He hasn’t said much since we left Julia’s, and I can’t blame him. Uprooting his life again, even temporarily, is another upheaval he didn’t ask for.
My fingers twitch on my lap, restless, I’m unsure of how to lift the weight pressing down on me. I reach for the air controls, twisting the dial aimlessly, but the truth is, nothing will fix this tightness in my chest. Not the cold. Not the heat. And not the feeling that somewhere, out there, someone is still watching.
What if this is a mistake? What if I’m leading Theo straight into another storm, just because the walls are thicker at Monarch Hills? Just because I want to believe Santi when he says we’re safe?
And yet, I know deep down that staying at Julia’s wasn’t an option anymore. The cameras, the constant threat hanging over us—it was too much.
When we pull up to the gate, the guards see it’s Julia’s car coming and head straight into the hut beside. The tall, robust wrought iron gates begin to open.
“Why do they have all this security here anyway?” I ask.
“The business Enzo and Rio are in…”
“GhostEye?”
Julia blows a guard a kiss on the way through. “Enzo is especially paranoid about safety. He’s been that way because of things that happened in the past but also, I suppose since they’re active in bringing down so many crime rings, he believes there are criminals out there with a target on his back. Rio’s back.”
I laugh sarcastically. “And this is where we’re safer.”
“Those guards might blow me kisses but don’t get twisted. The boys have got the best of the best pacing the perimeter of this place. Not to mention now that both Gabriel and Anton are living here, you’ve got two trained Navy SEALs for neighbors.”
As solid as Julia’s front door lock was, this trumps it.
She continues up the long driveway toward the cluster of houses, it’s a lot like driving into a cul-de-sac. Here are the six houses Santi built for his family, just like he said he would under our tree. I’m truly in awe of his determination. His grit. Shit, even his luck to have stayed on enough bulls to get here.
Julia throws her old Chevy into park. We’re in front of the house which must be Santi’s. Of course we’re bunking with him because there’s no explanation why Theo and I wouldn’t stay with my friend.
His house, like the others, is Spanish style with a stucco exterior and arched windows, wide patios and ornamental ironwork that showcases he’s a cowboy with attention to detail. Beyond it, the hills roll on forever, dotted with grazing horses and sturdy wooden fences. It’s beautiful, peaceful, and completely unlike the chaos of the past few months.
Santi steps onto the porch, broad shoulders framed by the glow of the setting sun. He leans against a beam like he owns the entire sky, easy, controlled, the kind of calm that says nothing shakes him. His black t-shirt hugs his biceps and is tucked into jeans that are a perfect fit around his tight, muscular waist. At his feet, Mila watches him the way everyone else does—like he’s the one who knows what to do.
His expression is unreadable, but his presence is absolute—rooted, immovable. He’s part of the land itself. The kind of man you could lean on, even when you don’t want to. Even when you shouldn’t.
Keeper bounds out of the car as soon as Theo opens the door, racing toward Santi, who crouches to greet my dog with a few firm pats. Then, the two dogs make a tornado playing with each other.
Theo steps out slowly, his gaze darting around as if unsure whether it’s safe to relax. I follow, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Santi’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us. The memory of his kiss flashes through my mind, making my cheeks heat, but I quickly shove it aside. There’s too much at stake to get lost in that now.
Santi comes down the stairs, takes my bag from me then heads to the flatbed to grab our suitcases. I say goodbye to Julia, and she heads over to park at Luis’.
“Welcome,” Santi is loaded up with all our belongings. “Come on inside. I’ve got rooms set up for you both.”
He starts up the path, his forearms flexing with our most precious objects hanging from his hands.
Inside, the house smells like cedar wood and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon. It’s both expansive and cozy, with high ceilings and soft, inviting furniture. A fire crackles in the stone hearth. And art… There is art everywhere. It’s not tasteless in placement, or encroaching upon the minimalistic feel, but it’s clear he’s an enthusiast.
“Theo,” Santi says, kneeling to meet him at eye level. “I set up a room for you upstairs. Keeper can sleep there with you if you want. And I’ve got something else I thought you might like.”
Curiosity flickers in Theo’s eyes. Santi leads us up the stairs and opens the door to a room that takes my breath away. It’s simple but thoughtful, with a hand-knitted, soft quilt on the bed, a shelf stocked with books and a small wooden desk that holds a whittling kit neatly arranged on it. Theo’s eyes widen as he takes it all in.
“I bought the supplies yesterday so we could get started,” Santi says, his tone casual but his expression hopeful. “Did you bring your wood back with you?”
Theo’s eyes shine with something I haven’t seen in too long—wonder. He doesn’t say anything at first, just steps closer, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast it’ll disappear. His fingers brush over the tools, slow and reverent .
He offers Santi a thin-lipped smile. “Thanks.”
God. That small word breaks me. Because it’s more than thanks. It’s trust. It’s a kid who has had too much taken from him realizing someone just gave him something back.
Santi’s shoulders relax slightly. “Anytime, little man.”
The dogs chase each other into Theo’s new room, and Keeper jumps up on the bed.
“Sorry…” I rush to scoot him off.
Santi chuckles. “It’s all good.” He scratches behind our pup’s ear. “Welcome to the home of muddy boots, horse hair and dog slobber.”
Theo bounces his butt on the bed next to Keeper and scratches him, too. Santi puts Theo at ease, and it makes my heart grow two sizes bigger.
As Theo settles in, unpacking his bag and exploring the book on whittling Santi left next to the tools, Santi steps back into the hallway with me. The moment the door closes behind us, the space between charges with static electricity. His presence is too close, his gaze too steady.
This man’s confidence has always been both disconcerting and irresistibly sexy. It’s impossible not to feel alive around him.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say quietly.
He shrugs, his eyes searching mine. “Yes, I did. Theo is the kind of kid where you need to make the first move. I get it. Owen is similar.”
“Will he be around at all in the next few days? Theo has asked about him a few times.”
“I set up a ride tomorrow for all of us. If you’re up for it?”
It’s as if he’s reaching for something inside me I’ve kept buried for too long. The intensity of his gaze is setting me on fire. I want him to kiss me again…
Just then, Theo calls out from the room. “Santi? Can you help me with this?”
Santi glances at me, his lips twitching into a small smile that sends an unexpected warmth through my chest.
“I’ll be right there,” he says.
He asked for Santi, not me.
“Duty calls…” he says, his dimple making a timely appearance and sending that heat from my chest right down between my thighs.
It doesn’t escape me that now, we’re in the same house, without Julia to wake if… My mind instantly flies back to being in college, slipping into my car and driving a hundred miles an hour to our secret spot under the tree, touching each other until morning in our private sanctuary.
“If you’re starting that whittling project,” I tease, “I want ten fingers returned to me.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Even the pinkies?”
I play slap him on his chest, and my palm is met with steely muscle. Fuck me.
Santi steps back inside Theo’s room. He crouches beside my little boy and guides his hands with quiet patience, murmuring encouragement in that low, effortless way that makes everything seem so simple. So… right.
It’s too easy to imagine him doing this forever. To let my mind slip into a place where Santi is always there, where this isn’t borrowed time.
But the sight is disarming. He’s so gentle with Theo, so attuned to his needs, that it stirs something deep and unshakable in me. My doubts start to crack, just a little, as I watch them together. The way Santi gazes at Theo like he’s the most important person in the world, makes my heart ache in a way I can’t quite explain.
Maybe this is what trust looks like. Or what love is—not taking or demanding, giving freely. I’m not used to seeing it. But the only times I have experienced it is with these two people before me.
I watch the pair from the doorjamb, leaning, mesmerized until my foot falls asleep and I move to the bed. A strange sense of calm settles over me.
Eventually, Santi turns around. “Sorry, Michi , I forgot to show you your room.”
He’s so relaxed he doesn’t realize he’s just called me Michi in front of Theo. My son quirks an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t ask.
“Let me grab your bag…” Santi starts to get up.
“No, I got it. You two keep it up. That pig is starting to take shape.”
“You sure?”
"I got it.”
“Okay then, yours is the door at the end of the hall on the right.”
I take my bag to my room to unpack. It’s perfect here. Both Theo and I have our own bedrooms, en suites. The decor is very classy but still homely, minimalist but warm with Spanish-inspired colors and textures. And the art is like Arthur said. Everywhere. Well placed. Beautifully selected with pieces that seem to be curated for every space.
I put my suitcase on the desk in the room and open it; my eye catches on the painting above.
It’s a print, and I’m positive it’s Dalí. Surrealist butterflies against a barren landscape. I glance around the other walls and on the shelves. More butterflies to match the theme. Maybe this is his Monarch Hills room.
Eventually, Theo’s footsteps come down the hall followed by a louder pair, and the whittling duo enter the room .
“Mom, look at this.” Theo holds out the wood. He has a glove on his left hand. “We already rounded the corners out.”
It doesn’t look like they’ve done much, but Theo is so proud I’m impressed by his excitement alone.
“Awesome. Was it hard?” I ask.
“I already have it down, but Santi is making me wear this glove.” Theo lifts his left hand as if Santi asked him to wear a snowsuit to go swimming.
Santi winks at me. “There should still be five fingers in there.”
Theo glances at Santi. “Can I do the rest of the rounding by myself?”
“I think you got it.” Santi glances at me for the final approval. “The glove makes it pretty safe. Plus, the knife I got him has double finger protection guards for hand without.”
So. Damn. Thoughtful.
“Okay,” I concede. “But if you’re going on to a step Santi hasn’t showed you before, you need a lesson first. Got it? No new steps without an adult present.”
Not that I intend to let Theo ever be alone. Not until all this drama is resolved for sure. Until these people are caught, or until somehow they know those drives aren’t with me.
Theo skips back off to his room with determination in his eyes.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He steps closer, the air between us thick. “You don’t have to thank me. This is what I want to do.”
The words hang there, full of meaning, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about Theo, about me, or both of us. My breath catches as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine for the briefest moment before he pulls back.
“Get some rest,” he says, his voice low and filled with something I can’t quite name.
And then he’s gone.
The warmth of his touch lingers—just a whisper on my skin, but enough to brand me.
But something else lingers, too.
The memory of those cameras. Of those unseen eyes. Of the feeling that someone is watching. Waiting. That this fight isn’t over—just biding its time.
I stare at the butterflies in the painting, their delicate wings frozen mid-flight.
I know exactly how they feel.