22. Dean
Dean
For someone who didn’t want anyone to know about us, she didn’t hesitate for a second to take my hand the moment we stepped out of my apartment.
Not a pause. Not a glance around. Just instinct.
And I didn’t stop her. Didn’t even think about it until we were halfway to the truck and her fingers were already threaded through mine like they belonged there. Like they’d always been there.
Thank God for the parking garage. No cameras.
No lingering eyes. No one catching something they shouldn’t before she’s ready for it.
The second we stepped out into the open, the thought hit me hard enough to stick—this is why the guys disappear into houses the second they find someone worth keeping.
It’s not about the space. It’s about control.
Protection. Keeping what’s yours away from people who don’t deserve a piece of it.
And right now, that means her. Because the only thing that can hurt her in this moment isn’t Tyler—it’s the wrong person finding out about us before she’s ready to handle what comes with it.
My jaw tightens slightly as I pull into the drive, already running through it in my head, already moving ahead of where we are now.
I’ll call Coleman. He’ll know what to look for.
He always does. Being one of the Kings Of Lakeshore has its advantages, and having the best realtor in the city in your corner is one of them.
If I’m doing this—if I’m serious about her the way I know I am—then I need something more than a penthouse with too many windows and not enough privacy.
I need somewhere she can breathe. Somewhere no one gets to look in unless I let them.
We start toward the house together, her hand still in mine, and I glance down at her without meaning to, catching the way she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.
Nervous. She does that when she’s trying to hold something in.
I’ve seen her do it before. Not once. Not twice.
Enough times that it’s something I look for without meaning to, something I track the second it starts, like my body catches it before my brain even names it.
It happens when she’s thinking too hard, when something shifts under her skin that she doesn’t know what to do with yet.
Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth, slow at first, then deeper the longer she stands in whatever she’s trying to hold together.
She doesn’t even realize she does it. Most people wouldn’t.
I do. My hand comes up without breaking stride, my thumb brushing across her lip, easing it free before she can press down harder, before she leaves that faint mark she always pretends isn’t there later.
The movement is quiet, practiced in a way I don’t question anymore, like I’ve done it before even though I haven’t.
Like I’ve watched it enough times that my body learned how to stop it on its own.
She stills when I touch her. Just for a second.
Not pulling away. Not leaning in. Just… feeling it.
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to explain.
Some things don’t need words. I let my hand fall back to my side, the absence immediate, noticeable in a way I pretend not to track, even as I feel the shift in her beside me.
It’s subtle, the way she moves, the way her fingers twitch slightly like they’re reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.
Like she already got used to it. Like she expected me to still be holding her hand.
I don’t take it back. Not yet. Not when I know what’s about to happen next.
I knock once, firm, steady, the sound echoing just enough that there’s no missing it from the other side of the door, and I keep my hand at my side instead of reaching back for hers again.
She looks up at me, confusion flickering across her face, that slight crease between her brows telling me she doesn’t understand why I let go now when I didn’t before.
She will. In about five seconds. And when the door opens—she’s going to be glad I did.
The door flies open, and Mark fills the frame.
For a second, everything is perfect. I’ve always had a solid relationship with him.
Built on trust. Results. The understanding that I run my team the way it needs to be run and he backs me when it matters.
When I called earlier and told him I needed a private meeting, he didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t ask questions. Just gave me a time and said he would be home. That’s how it works between us.
But the second his eyes shift past me—everything changes.
They land on Maddie. Stay there. And then come back to me.
It’s subtle. Quick. But I see it. The calculation.
The question. And then his attention drifts back to her again, slower this time, more focused, like he’s not just looking—he’s reading.
I should’ve caught it sooner. Should’ve stepped in front of her.
Should’ve thought about what he’d see before I brought her here.
Because the second it clicks—his expression hardens.
Not at me. At what he’s seeing on her. The bruise.
The faint swelling. The marks I’ve been trying not to look at too closely since this morning because every time I do, it takes everything in me not to go finish something I already promised I’d leave alone.
He moves before I do. One step. Then another.
Straight past me like I’m not even there.
“What the fuck happened?” His voice isn’t loud. But it’s sharp. Focused. And when he stops in front of her, there’s no mistaking where his attention is. “Who hit you?”
Maddie stills beside me, her body tightening in a way I feel before I see it, her step shifting back just slightly like she doesn’t know how to respond to the sudden shift in him.
“And if it was him—” Mark’s voice drops lower, something dangerous threading through it now as he finally flicks his eyes toward me. “I’ll put you in the fucking ground.”
My jaw locks. “I didn’t fucking hit her,” I growl, the words coming out low and controlled, but there’s no mistaking what’s sitting under them.
His attention snaps back to her immediately. Not questioning me. Not even acknowledging the answer. “Are you taking care of the person who did?” The question is meant for me. But he doesn’t look at me when he asks it.
He stays locked on her, scanning, assessing, making sure she’s okay in a way that would almost sit right if I didn’t hate how close he’s standing.
I don’t think about it. I just move. My arm comes around her, pulling her into my side without asking, without hesitation, needing the space between them gone more than I need to explain it.
She fits there instantly, curling into me like she’s done it a hundred times before, like her body knows exactly where to go when something feels off. And that—that changes everything.
Mark sees it. I watch the exact second it registers. The way his eyes shift, the tension easing just slightly, something understanding settling in where there was only anger a second ago.
“Ah.” It’s quiet. But it says enough. “I see.” His gaze flicks between us once more, slower now, more measured, and then he steps back, giving us space he wasn’t offering before.
“Come on in,” he says, turning toward the house like nothing just happened. “Let me grab what you need to sign.”
Maddie stays tucked into me for half a second longer before we follow, her steps falling just behind mine, her presence still pressed into my side in a way I don’t rush her out of. “What’s going on?” she whispers, her voice low, just for me.
“I told you we wouldn’t tell everyone,” I murmur back, keeping my tone even as we step inside. “But we had to tell Mark.”
“We had to tell him today?” There’s a bite to it now, frustration slipping in under the surface.
I don’t look at her. Don’t soften it. “Yes.” Because that part isn’t optional. “I told you I’m not putting you or your job at risk.”
She doesn’t answer. But I feel the shift. The space she puts between us when we stop moving. The way she steps just a little ahead once we’re done, once the papers are signed and everything is handled the way it needed to be. She’s still pissed. I let her be.
Mark hangs back just enough as we step out, his attention shifting back to me once Maddie gets a few steps ahead, far enough that she won’t catch what’s coming next. “You know who did it?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out tight.
“Is he still breathing?” There’s a hint of something lighter in his tone, like he’s trying to pass it off as a joke.
“Yes.” The word grinds out of me, harder this time. Because I told her I wouldn’t touch it. Because every part of me still wants to.
“Will you take care of it?” I don’t answer out loud. I don’t need to. I turn toward him just enough, meeting his eyes, and nod once. That’s all it takes. Then I’m moving again, closing the distance between me and Maddie, catching up to her before she can get too far ahead.
She doesn’t slow down when I reach her. Doesn’t look at me. Still holding onto that frustration. That’s fine. I open her door anyway. Guide her in. And when I lean over to buckle her in—I don’t miss the way her breath shifts. Even if she’s still mad at me.
She’s quiet the entire drive. Not the kind of quiet that settles easy.
Not the kind that comes with comfort and music and everything sitting right where it should.
This one has edges to it, something she’s holding onto instead of letting out, and I feel it every second she doesn’t speak.
I let it go for a while. Give her space to work through it the way she needs to.
But when we’re halfway across the city and she still hasn’t said more than a couple words, I know I need to step in before she builds it into something bigger than it has to be.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my jaw before I glance over at her.
“I’m sorry.” The words sit between us for a second before she turns toward me, her brows pulling together like she didn’t expect that to come out of my mouth.
“You’re apologizing?” There’s surprise in it. Real surprise.
“Yeah,” I answer, not hesitating. “I fucked up.” I lift a finger slightly before she can take it the wrong way. “Not sorry we went to see him,” I add, steady, because that part doesn’t change. “We needed to. But I should’ve told you ahead of time. You deserved that.”
She studies me for a second, something shifting behind her eyes before she looks away again, her attention drifting back out the window. “Yeah,” she says after a beat. “I could’ve stopped and grabbed concealer or something. Covered it better.”
My grip tightens on the wheel before I can stop it.
I don’t say anything right away. Because I hate that.
Hate that her first instinct is to hide it.
To cover something that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
That she’s thinking about how it looks instead of the fact that it happened.
Every part of me wants to shut that down.
Tell her she doesn’t have to hide a damn thing.
Tell her she can stay with me until it fades, until there’s nothing left for anyone to question.
But I don’t. Because her job matters. I’ve seen it.
The way she moves through it. The way she handles everything thrown at her without missing a step.
The way the guys trust her without even realizing it.
I wasn’t exaggerating earlier. She’s fucking phenomenal at it. And I’m not taking that from her just because I want her close where I can see her.
“I think I should stay at Addy’s.” Her voice cuts through my thoughts, softer than before, but there’s something set in it, something she’s been working toward saying since we left Mark’s.
I don’t answer right away. I wait. Let her finish.
“People are going to start noticing if they see me coming and going from your place,” she continues, glancing at me now, like she’s checking to see if I’m going to push back immediately.
“And we both want to win these next home games. Our routines matter.”
I huff out a quiet breath, my jaw tightening again, not at her—at the situation. At the fact that she’s right. At the fact that I don’t like it anyway. Another reason to call Coleman. The thought hits fast, settling in like something already decided.
“I’m not going two weeks without seeing you,” I tell her, my tone steady but leaving no room for that to be an option. “Not happening.” I glance at her briefly before shifting my attention back to the road. “You’re going to have to meet me halfway or something, Baby.”
She exhales softly, shaking her head just slightly. “We can spend time together,” she says. “I’m just not staying with you.”
I nod once. That, I can work with. It’s not what I want.
But it’s not her pulling away either. Before I can say anything else, before we can figure out what halfway actually looks like, the building comes into view.
Tyler’s place. My grip tightens again without permission, the familiar red edge pushing back up under my skin as I pull in, cutting the engine faster than I need to.
She’s already reaching for the door handle.
I’m out before she can touch it. The door slams behind me, my steps quick as I round the front of the truck, my focus locking onto her car immediately—and then stopping.
There’s something on the windshield. A piece of paper tucked under the wiper. I reach it before she does, pulling it free without thinking, my jaw tightening as I glance down at it.
Whatever this is—I already know I’m not going to like it.