13. Greer
GREER
Ididn't follow her.
That's the part that surprises me most—not that she ran, not that Cain's text sent her scrambling back to Jersey with her jeans unbuttoned and her taste still on my tongue, but that I let her go without chasing after her.
I sat in my living room after she left, the house too quiet, the air still carrying hints of her perfume mixed with sweat and sex. My heart was still racing. My hands were still shaking. My mouth still tingled from where she'd gripped my hair so hard it hurt in the best possible way.
And I just... processed.
Because the thing about Zaria Bennett is that she's a hurricane.
She's chaos wrapped in control, violence dressed up as strategy, danger that looks like salvation.
And I've been caught in her storm for weeks now, letting it pull me deeper and deeper until I can barely remember what solid ground feels like.
I needed a moment to breathe. To think. To make sure I wasn't losing myself completely even though part of me knows it's already too late.
I spent the next night with Lilah and Hayes at their place, letting them feed me dinner while Hayes complained about some supplier issue and Lilah curled into his side like she belonged there.
Like she'd always belonged there. Like coming home to someone who sees you and wants you and chooses you every single day is the most natural thing in the world.
I watched them together and felt something twist in my chest that might have been jealousy except it wasn't bitter.
It was longing. It was recognition. It was the sudden, terrifying realization that I want what they have—that partnership, that certainty, that coming home to someone who makes the rest of the world fade into background noise.
And I want it with her.
With Zaria, who runs every time I get too close. Who gives me pieces of herself and then snatches them back before I can hold onto them properly. Who kisses me like she's drowning and then disappears before I can pull her to shore.
"You okay?" Lilah asked at one point, her amber eyes too perceptive for my own good.
"Fine."
"You're staring at your plate like it insulted your mother."
Hayes snorted into his wine. I kicked him under the table.
"Just tired. Work's been busy."
It was a lie and we all knew it, but Lilah let it go.
She's good at that—reading between the lines but not pushing unless she thinks I'm in actual danger.
And maybe I am, but not the kind she's worried about.
Not the kind that involves kidnapping and brass knuckles and waking up with twelve stitches in my temple.
This is a different kind of danger. The kind that burrows under your skin and makes a home there. The kind that changes you from the inside out until you look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself but can't bring yourself to care.
I stayed away for two more days after that.
Went to work, sat through meetings, analyzed marketing data for clients who wanted to optimize their digital presence or whatever the hell we were supposed to be doing.
The numbers blurred together. My mind wandered.
Sarah from accounting stopped by my desk to ask about lunch and I looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language until she walked away looking confused.
Trevor noticed. "You seeing someone?"
"Why?"
"Because you look like you got laid recently but also like you're about to start a murder spree. It's a very specific combination."
Jake laughed from his desk. "He's been weird for weeks. Ever since we dragged him to Jersey that night."
That night. The night everything changed. The night I watched Zaria kill a man in the cage and felt something wake up inside me that had been sleeping since Dylan beat me bloody and Hayes made his body disappear.
I mumbled something noncommittal and went back to pretending to work while actually thinking about Zaria's hands on my shoulders, her breath against my ear, her voice calling me good boy in that tone that makes me want to either punch something or drop to my knees.
By the fourth day, I was crawling out of my skin. By the fifth, I knew I couldn't stay away anymore.
So last night I drove to Jersey.
I went to Marco's bar, the one where everything started, the one where I've been building my network of contacts who don't ask questions about why some clean-cut Manhattan guy keeps showing up asking about Bennett territory.
I was nursing a beer and making small talk with Danny, one of the runners I've gotten friendly with over the past few weeks, when I overheard him talking to his buddy about Felix.
"—skimming for months, man. Eight percent off every delivery. Boss hasn't noticed yet but Cain's getting suspicious."
"How much we talking?"
"Thirty grand, easy. Maybe more. Felix been careful about it but he's getting cocky. Told Rasheed he was saving up to run, get out from under Bennett control."
I kept my face neutral, my eyes on my beer, but my mind was already working. Already calculating. Already seeing the patterns the way I've been trained to see patterns my entire professional life—find the inefficiency, identify the leak, optimize the system.
Except in Zaria's world, optimizing means blood and violence and bodies in alleys.
And I didn't even hesitate.
I finished my beer, paid Danny for the information with a casual hundred-dollar bill like I was tipping for good service, and spent the next three hours tracking Felix down.
It wasn't hard—people talk when you know who to ask and what to offer.
Found him at a shitty motel on the south side, counting his stolen cash and probably planning his exit strategy.
He fought harder than Rasheed did. Got a few good hits in before I remembered everything Hayes taught me. How to use momentum against someone bigger. Where to hit to make it hurt the most. How to break someone down systematically until they're begging you to stop.
I didn't stop until he was unconscious.
Then I tied him up, took the evidence, and left him where I knew Zaria would find him. Left another note pinned to his chest with the math in his pocket and the cash returned like I was some kind of fucking criminal Santa Claus delivering presents.
You're welcome.
Like it was nothing. Like I didn't just spend three hours hunting someone down and beating them bloody because they stole from her.
Like this is just what I do now—solve her problems with violence and expect nothing in return except maybe that look she gets when I surprise her, that flash of heat in her amber eyes that makes me feel like I could conquer the world.
I drove home at three in the morning with split knuckles and Felix's blood under my fingernails and felt more alive than I have in nine months.
That was last night.
Now it's been five days since I tasted her, since I made her come on my kitchen counter while she called me a good boy and I stroked myself thinking about all the ways I want to ruin her.
Five days since she ran and I let her go because she needed space and I needed to breathe and we both needed to figure out what the hell we're doing.
But I'm done giving her space. I'm done letting her run. I'm done pretending I can stay away when every cell in my body is screaming to find her, to touch her, to make her admit this thing between us is real.
So I leave work early—tell my boss I have a doctor's appointment, ignore Jake's knowing smirk—and drive to Jersey.
The familiar route feels like coming home now, the city giving way to narrower streets and older buildings and people who eye my car with casual interest but don't ask questions because they've seen me around enough to know I'm not a threat.
Or maybe they know I belong to Zaria, which makes me untouchable.
The thought makes something warm settle in my chest.
I park outside Marco's and head inside. The bar is moderately busy for a weekday afternoon—a few regulars nursing beers, some guys playing pool in the back, Marco himself behind the bar polishing glasses with the kind of methodical efficiency that comes from decades of practice.
He nods at me when I slide onto a stool. "Greer. Haven't seen you in a few days."
"Been busy."
"Heard you've been keeping yourself occupied." His tone is neutral but his eyes are knowing. News travels fast in Bennett territory, apparently. "The usual?"
"Yeah."
He pours me a beer and sets it down. I take a drink, letting the familiar routine settle my nerves. Except my nerves won't settle because I'm hyperaware of every face in the bar, every sound from the street, every possibility that Zaria might walk through that door and finally stop running.
"She's looking for you, you know," Marco says casually, wiping down the bar.
My hand tightens on my glass. "Who?"
He gives me a flat look that says don't play stupid. "The boss. Been asking around. Checking your usual spots."
My pulse kicks up. "When?"
"Past couple days."
Does that mean she wanted to see me before she got my gift? I'm assuming she did, that she found the note, saw the evidence, realized I'm still here, still watching, still proving myself even when she's not around to see it. The thought makes satisfaction curl hot in my stomach.
"What'd she say?"
"Nothing. But Viper doesn't need to say much." Marco moves down the bar to serve another customer, leaving me with my beer and my racing thoughts.
She's looking for me. She's been looking for me. Which means she's done running, or at least done pretending she doesn't want this as much as I do. Which means when I see her again?—
A hand lands on my shoulder.
Every muscle in my body goes tense. I turn slowly, half-expecting Cain or one of Zaria's crew, already preparing some explanation for why I'm here in the middle of the afternoon instead of at my actual job.
But it's not Cain.
It's Hayes.