12. Zaria
ZARIA
Islide into the passenger seat of my Challenger—the one that Cain must have grabbed from outside Greer's building on his way to find me—and he gives me a look that makes me want to punch him in the throat.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything." But his eyes are saying plenty. They're saying you went home with him? They're saying what happened to creating distance? They're saying what happened to not getting the civilian killed?
"Good. Keep it that way." I set the duffel bag between my feet, hyperaware that my underwear is still damp and my legs feel unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with the heels I'm not wearing.
My pulse hasn't settled. Won't settle. Not when I can still taste Greer on my tongue, still feel his hands gripping my thighs, still see those green-gold eyes watching me come apart like I was something sacred.
Cain pulls away from the curb. "Nice house."
"How did you even know where I was?"
He gives me another look, this one flatter. "You know I track your phone."
I do know that. Have known it since he installed the encryption software two years ago when the Volkovs were making noise about expanding into Bennett territory.
The encryption makes my device otherwise impenetrable—no one can hack it, tap it, trace it—but Cain can always find me. It's the trade-off. Safety for privacy.
And right now I'm grateful for it even if I'm annoyed he interrupted. Even if part of me wanted to stay in that pristine suburban house with Greer's mouth between my legs and his desperate hands on my body.
"What was the emergency anyway?" I deflect.
"Got a tip on where Rasheed was taking that money." Cain pulls out into traffic, weaving between cars with the kind of reckless confidence that used to scare me when we were teenagers. Now it's just familiar. "We need to investigate before the trail goes cold."
I nod looking away as he speeds up. He prefers his bike because it has better control and he drives like a madman, but he does appreciate my car.
The city blurs past us—Manhattan giving way to the bridge, the bridge giving way to Jersey, Jersey giving way to our territory where the streets get narrower and the buildings get older and everyone knows better than to look too closely at what the Bennetts are doing.
But my mind isn't on Rasheed or missing money or tips from informants.
It's on Greer's kitchen. On his desperate please that made my stomach flip. On the way he looked kneeling between my legs like I was everything he'd ever wanted and he was terrified I'd take it away.
On the way I ran the second Cain texted because staying meant admitting this is more than just attraction, more than just a distraction, more than just some clean-cut civilian I'm corrupting for my own entertainment.
And I'm not ready to admit that.
Not to Cain. Not to myself. Not to anyone.
Four days later, I'm at the underground fight club on Seventh Street watching two heavyweights beat the shit out of each other in the cage. The crowd is screaming. Money is changing hands. Cain is beside me going over supply chain adjustments with Lex.
And I can't stop looking at the entrance.
Waiting for messy brown hair and green-gold eyes and that lean frame that's been filling out with muscle over the past few weeks.
Waiting for Greer to walk through those doors like he's been doing for nearly a month, seeking me out with that intensity that should scare me and instead makes me feel something I haven't felt in years.
Seen.
But he doesn't come.
Hasn't come for four days.
Not since I left his house with my underwear still damp and his taste on my tongue and his desperate let me taste you echoing in my head.
"Z." Cain's voice cuts through my distraction. "You listening?"
I drag my eyes away from the entrance. Lex is watching me with polite attention, waiting for me to weigh in on whatever they were just discussing. I have no idea what it was.
"Run it by me again."
Lex doesn't look offended. He's been working for my father since before I was born—he knows when someone's distracted.
"The new route through the warehouse district.
Cuts twenty minutes off our delivery time to the northern distributors, but it means we're exposed on Carter Street for about six blocks. "
Right. The route adjustment. We've been discussing it for two weeks, trying to balance efficiency with safety. Carter Street is neutral ground right now but that could change if the Okafors keep testing our borders.
"Do it," I say. "But I want two chase cars—one ahead, one behind. Anyone tries something on Carter Street, we make an example."
Lex nods, satisfied. "I'll coordinate with Vaughn on the security."
He melts back into the crowd and I return my attention to the cage where one fighter just dropped the other with a brutal right hook. The crowd roars. I should be paying attention to the fight, to the betting patterns, to the faces in the crowd looking for anyone who doesn't belong.
Instead I'm looking at the entrance again.
Pathetic.
"When are you going to admit it?" Cain's voice is low enough that only I can hear over the noise.
"Admit what?"
"That this is more than just attraction."
My jaw tightens. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right." He takes a drink of his beer, still watching the cage. "You're just casually watching the door like a lovesick teenager waiting for her boyfriend to show up. That's totally normal behavior for Zaria Bennett."
"Fuck off."
"You went to his house, Z. His actual house. Not some neutral location where you could maintain control. His home. Where he has all the power because it's his territory, his space, his rules." Cain finally looks at me. "You don't do that for guys you're just attracted to."
He's not wrong. I don't. I've never brought someone to my apartment who wasn't crew or business. Never went to someone else's home unless it was a strategic meeting on their turf. Never let myself be vulnerable in someone else's space because vulnerability is how you get hurt.
But I went to Greer's house. Let him put me on his kitchen counter. Let him make me come so hard I saw stars while he watched me like I was everything.
And then I ran.
"It doesn't matter." I force my eyes away from the entrance, back to the cage. "He's civilian. He doesn't belong in this world."
"He intercepted an Okafor shipment."
"He got lucky."
"He found Rasheed when we couldn't."
"He has bartender contacts."
"He's obsessed with you," Cain snaps. "And you're obsessed with him. Everyone can see it except apparently you two." He finishes his beer and sets the bottle down. "Question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing." The word comes out too fast, too defensive. "I'm not doing anything about it."
"So you're just going to keep watching the door and pretending you don't care that he hasn't shown up in four days?"
"I don't care."
"Z." Cain's voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when he's being sarcastic. "You're allowed to want something for yourself. You're allowed to let someone in."
"No, I'm not." I push away from the wall we're leaning against. "I'm Malcolm Bennett's daughter. I don't get to have nice things. I don't get to keep them. And I definitely don't get to drag some civilian into this life just because he makes me feel something."
"He's not some civilian anymore. He chose this. He chose you."
"He doesn't know what he's choosing."
"I think he knows exactly what he's choosing." Cain straightens too. "But you're too scared to let him."
The accusation hits like a slap. I'm not scared. I'm practical. I'm protecting him from a world that will chew him up and spit him out bloody. I'm being responsible.
I'm running because staying means admitting that Greer Martin has gotten under my skin in a way that makes me vulnerable, makes me weak, makes me want things I can't have.
"I need air." I turn toward the back exit before Cain can respond.
The alley behind the club is quieter but not silent—Jersey is never truly quiet, always humming with traffic and voices and the distant sound of sirens. I lean against the brick wall and close my eyes, trying to shake off the restlessness that's been eating at me for four days.
Trying to shake off the memory of Greer's mouth. His hands. His desperate please that made me feel powerful and terrified in equal measure.
Trying to convince myself that avoiding him is the right choice when every cell in my body is screaming to go find him, to hunt through Manhattan until I track him down, to?—
I smell blood before I see it.
My eyes snap open and I'm already moving, already reaching for the knife in my boot as I scan the alley. There—twenty feet away, slumped against the dumpster.
A man. Tied up. Unconscious but breathing.
I approach cautiously, knife out, scanning the shadows for whoever left him here. But the alley is empty except for me and the body. When I get close enough to see his face, recognition hits.
Felix. One of my runners who's been moving product through the downtown route for six months. Young, ambitious, a little too cocky but good at his job.
Or so I thought.
There's a note pinned to his chest.
I crouch down and pull it free, unfolding it with fingers that have gone very still.
He's been skimming. 8% off every delivery for three months. The math is inside his jacket pocket along with the cash he was saving to run.
You're welcome. —G
I stare at the note. At the familiar handwriting that I've only seen once before, on the note he left with Rasheed. At the casual confidence of you're welcome like this is just another gift he's giving me.
Like he's been watching. Investigating. Digging into my operations and finding problems I didn't even know I had because I've been distracted by supply chain adjustments and Okafor threats and trying not to think about his mouth between my legs.
I reach into Felix's jacket and pull out a folded piece of paper covered in neat columns of numbers.
Dates. Delivery amounts. Expected weight versus actual weight.
The discrepancy is right there in black and white—eight percent, just like Greer said, adding up to nearly thirty thousand over three months.
Thirty thousand I didn't even notice was missing.
There's also a ziplock bag full of cash. I don't count it but it looks about right.
I should be angry that Greer is still involving himself in my business. Should be furious that he's operating without my permission, that he's taking risks I didn't authorize, that he's inserting himself deeper into my world when I've been trying to create distance.
But I'm not angry.
I'm smiling.
Standing in a dirty alley behind an illegal fight club with an unconscious runner tied up at my feet and evidence of his betrayal in my hands, I'm smiling like Greer just brought me flowers instead of a beating victim.
Because he did this for me. Found a problem I didn't have time to deal with. Solved it. Left it gift-wrapped in a back alley where he somehow knew I'd find it.
He's been watching me. Learning my patterns. Figuring out where I'd be and when.
Hunting me the way I taught him to hunt.
The way he spent weeks hunting through fight clubs just to find me in the first place.
Four days. I gave him four days of silence, of absence, of me running scared from what he makes me feel.
And instead of backing off, instead of taking the hint, instead of protecting himself the way any sane person would?—
He gave me another gift.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my pocket. The math and the cash go back into Felix's jacket. I'll have Cain deal with him later, decide if he's worth keeping alive or if he needs to disappear like Rasheed did.
Right now, I need to find Greer.
Because avoiding him clearly isn't working. Creating distance isn't working. Trying to protect him from my world isn't working when he keeps deliberately diving deeper into it.
And maybe Cain is right. Maybe I'm allowed to want something for myself. Maybe I'm allowed to let someone in even if it's dangerous, even if it's reckless, even if it means risking something I'm not sure I can afford to lose.
Maybe Greer Martin has been choosing this—choosing me—and it's time I stopped running from it.
The smile on my face feels dangerous. Feels like a decision I'm going to regret.
Feels like the beginning of something I won't be able to walk away from.
Good.