Chapter 31
Zoe
Gio's car idles at the curb, a sleek, dark predator in the morning light. He's leaning against the driver's door, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the entrance of my dorm like it personally offended him. The man looks like he hasn't slept, which makes two of us.
I walk down the steps, ignoring the way his eyes track my every movement.
I pull the door handle and slide into the passenger seat.
The moment the door clicks shut, he pushes off the car and slides behind the wheel.
The air inside is heavy, smelling like leather and his cologne.
He shoves the key into the ignition and tears the gearshift into drive with more force than necessary.
"You didn't stay," he says, his voice rough, scraping against the quiet of the cabin.
"I have a roommate," I say, staring straight ahead at the pavement. "And a life."
"I was cold," he grumbles, peeling away from the curb with a jerk that presses me back into the seat. "The bed is too big without you."
My patience snaps. I turn to him, my eyes slicing into his profile. "You literally went to a party to fuck another girl," I say, my voice flat and sharp. "You don't get to complain about where I sleep."
"I wouldn't have fucked her," he snaps, his eyes flashing. "I was pissed because you walked away."
"Was that your way of throwing a temper tantrum?" I ask, my voice dripping with mock sympathy. "And now you're pouting because the timeout didn't work?"
Gio flinches, his jaw ticking as he grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.
He stares at the road, a muscle jumping in his temple.
He slams on the brakes at a red light, the car screeching to a halt.
He turns to me then, his eyes wild and desperate, the bear with a sore tooth finally baring its teeth.
"I'm clawing my way back to you," he bites out. "There's a difference."
The light turns green, and he accelerates, the engine growling as he eats up the asphalt. His hand drifts off the steering wheel, fingers seeking mine on the center console. I pull my hand away and place it firmly on my own knee.
"Focus on the road, Gio," I say, staring out the window at the blur of trees.
"I'm trying to apologize," he counters, his voice low and frustrated. He tries again, his palm landing on my thigh, heavy and hot. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I went to that party. I'm sorry I acted like a dick."
I catch his wrist. Clean. Controlled. My fingers close around the bones and tendons like I'm checking a pulse. I lift his hand off my thigh and set it back on the steering wheel with a deliberate press, my palm flattening there for one beat longer than necessary.
"Drive," I say, quiet and final.
His breath stutters like I punched him. He looks at the road harder, knuckles whitening under my hand. I release him before it can turn into anything that feels like comfort.
"Apologies require behavior change, Gio," I say, voice even. "Not a confession after you get caught."
He lets out a ragged breath, his grip tightening on the leather steering wheel until it creaks.
His jaw ticks, a sharp, rhythmic spasm that betrays the control he's fighting to keep.
He keeps flicking his eyes from the road to my legs, dark and hungry, like he's starving and I'm the only meal in sight.
"I had my hands on her, but I was looking at you the whole time," he says, the words ground out through gritted teeth. "I just wanted you to fucking look at me."
"It worked," I say, turning to look at him. "You got a reaction. Now you're mad that the reaction wasn't me crawling back to you."
"I want you to look at me like I'm your ally," he snaps, glancing over at me.
"Then stop acting like an enemy," I say.
He falls silent, the air in the car thick with unsaid words and the hum of the engine.
He doesn't reach for me again, but I can feel him vibrating with the effort to stay in his lane.
He wants to fast-forward to the forgiven part, to skip over the groveling and get straight to the part where I'm back in his bed.
I'm the detour he's going to have to take if he wants to survive this.
Elm House is a bunker. Gio kills the engine in the driveway, and the silence that follows is heavy, loaded with the kind of anticipation that usually precedes a storm.
We walk in, and the air shifts. The living room has been gutted of its usual debris—no red cups, no stray sneakers.
It's been reconfigured into a tactical operations center.
Laptops are open, screens glowing with code and draft articles.
The coffee table is a war zone of cables and empty mugs.
The place is packed. Genny is on the couch, typing so fast her fingers are a blur.
Maya is in the armchair, phone pressed to her ear, her voice low and sharp as she negotiates something with a source.
Adrian and Declan are pacing the length of the room, their movements synchronized, restless energy radiating off them in waves.
Dante and Cole are stationed by the window, arms crossed, eyes on the street like they're expecting a SWAT team to breach the perimeter at any second.
Talia and Clara are at the kitchen island, surrounded by a spread of printed documents and highlighters, heads bent together in low, urgent consultation.
They're locking shields. For him.
Gio steps in beside me, his presence massive and overheated.
He tries to drape his arm over my shoulders, a heavy, possessive weight meant to stake a claim in front of his team.
I sidestep him immediately, a smooth, calculated slide to the left that leaves him grabbing at empty air.
I walk straight to Genny, leaning over the back of the couch to scan the code on her screen.
"Status," I say.
"Encryption is thicker than expected," Genny says, not looking up. "I found a backdoor in the metadata. It's sloppy work."
Behind me, I feel the air move. Gio hovers. He looms. I can feel the heat of his chest at my back, the subtle shift in air pressure as he leans in, trying to get close enough to catch the scent of my hair.
"Talk to me, Genny," Gio says, his voice rumbling against my spine. "What do you need?"
"Time," Genny says, her fingers flying across the keys. "I need you to stall the Sheriff's server for exactly three minutes while I inject the ghost protocol."
"I can do three," Maya says, already typing on her phone. "I'll feed him a distraction story about a domestic disturbance on the north side."
I pull a notebook from my bag, flipping it open to a fresh page. I start scribbling the timeline, cross-referencing the gaps in Gio's statement with the digital footprints Genny is pulling up.
Gio moves behind me. He plants his hands on the back of my chair, his grip tight, boxing me in. The heat of his chest radiates against my spine, a wall of muscle and frustration that he refuses to move. He leans down, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.
"You're being stubborn," he murmurs, the vibration of his voice sinking straight into my bones. "I'm right here."
I don't stop writing. I keep my pen moving, the scratch of the nib loud in the sudden quiet of the room. "And you're in the way," I say, tone flat.
"I'm trying to help," he insists, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "I can give you the names. I know who was in the room."
"We have the names," I say, circling a timestamp. "We need the proof. Go be useful somewhere else."
He presses closer, the denim of his jeans brushing against my arm.
Fine. I lean back—just an inch, just long enough for my shoulder blades to meet his chest. A single, deliberate second of contact.
Leverage. I feel the sharp hitch of his breath, the way his body goes still like I just put a blade to his throat.
Then I roll forward again, breaking it clean, and keep writing like it never happened.
The air between us crackles, thick with unsaid apologies and the weight of the night before.
A moment passes, then another. I hear a soft clink beside me.
A ceramic mug, steam curling from its surface, appears on the edge of the coffee table, just within my periphery.
Coffee. Black, the way I like it. A peace offering. A silent plea.
I don't look at it. I don't look at him.
I just keep writing, my pen scratching a furious rhythm against the paper.
The mug sits there, a monument to his failed attempt.
I can feel his frustration radiating off him, a palpable wave of heat.
He retreats a single step, the pressure on my back easing, but he doesn't leave.
I hear him shuffle, then the crinkle of a plastic wrapper.
A bright pink highlighter appears next to the mug, placed with the same hesitant hope.
My jaw tightens. I set my pen down with a deliberate click, pick up the highlighter without looking at him, and start marking up my notes.
I use it because it's there. It's a tool I'm commandeering.
I hear his sharp, quiet inhale, the sound of a man who doesn't know whether to be relieved or infuriated.
He's learning that my acceptance is a tactical decision.
"Zoe," he warns, his voice a low rumble of frustration.
I shift my weight, driving my elbow back into his ribs. Hard. He grunts, a sharp exhale of air, and finally stumbles back a step. "Go call Coach," I say, still not looking up. "We need to know if the university is going to fold or fight."
Gio rubs his ribs, shooting me a dark look that doesn't quite land. He turns toward the kitchen island, pulling his phone from his pocket. He taps the screen, hitting speaker before he even lifts it to his ear, and sets it down on the granite so the whole room can hear. It rings twice.
"Addison," Coach's voice crackles through the speaker, clipped and expectant.