Then he straightens and looks at me. At Rafe’s hand in mine. At Jude on the other side of the bed.
“Not tonight,” he says. Rough and low. “Tonight she sleeps. Tonight we figure out the security rotation and the extraction timeline and the Dominic problem.”
“And tomorrow?” I say.
His eyes hold mine. The heat in them is banked but present. Not possessive in the singular anymore. Something wider. Something he is still learning the edges of.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “we stop pretending any of us can survive this alone.”
Rafe’s thumb draws a slow circle on my wrist. Jude’s hand rests on the blanket beside Tyra. Nick stands three feet away, arms at his sides, every line of his body sayingI am here and I am not leaving.
I have never had this. Not in the compound. Not in the years of bodyguards and monitored phones and dining tables where I was not welcome. Not in the sidelined years when I taught myself encryption and built a weapon from my own marginalization.
I have Tyra. Tyra always stays. But these three men, in this dim cabin, choosing me even though choosing me means choosing each other—this is the thing I did not plan for when I stole the USB drive and ran.
I squeeze Rafe’s hand.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “I want all three of you. In the same room. At the same time.”
The words land like a detonation in a sealed space.
Nobody moves.
Nick’s jaw ticks. His pupils dilate. His hands grip the counter behind him and the muscles in his forearms cord tight. The possessiveness shifting frommine aloneto something wider, darker, something that involves two other men and a locked door and the woman in the middle of them telling him exactly what she needs.
Jude’s head tilts. His gaze sharpens. Already mapping the angles, the variables, treating this the way he treats everything complex—not with hesitation, with precision.
Rafe’s grip on my hand tightens. His thumb presses hard into my pulse point. He knew. He has known. The confirmation is all he needed.
None of them say no.
21
LUCIA
The heavy, handmade quilt smells faintly of pine smoke and the distinct, dark musk of the three men currently occupying the cabin.
I wake up slowly, my cheek pressed against the rough cotton pillowcase. Morning light filters through the frost-covered windowpanes, casting long, pale shadows across the dusty wooden floorboards.
My body hums with a deep, lingering ache. The phantom sensation of Jude’s clinical, devastating possession in the shower last night still tightens my lower abdomen. The visceral memory of Nick’s ruthless, vocal claiming in the generator shed still makes my thighs clench. And Rafe—the golden-eyed beast who claimed me on that bearskin rug with raw, silent worship—his invisible brand still burns hot against my skin.
Yesterday was a seismic shift. The revelation of Jude’s paternity. The brutal, honest confrontation that shattered the MC code. The absolute, terrifying decision to demand all three of them.
I did not ask for pieces. I demanded the entire board. And they stayed.
I push the heavy quilt back and swing my legs over the side of the mattress. My bare feet hit the cold floorboards. I pull Rafe’s oversized flannel shirt tightly around my torso.
The main living space is already awake.
I braid Tyra’s dark curls at the kitchen island while she narrates the grey wolf’s position on breakfast pastries. The wolf, apparently, is a strict pancake loyalist. Waffles are for people who cannot commit to a flat surface.
She sounds exactly like Jude. The deadpan delivery. The absolute certainty. Four years old and issuing verdicts with the confidence of a man who spent a decade making life-and-death calls in a trauma ward.
Jude remains anchored against the kitchen counter, watching us with the clinical focus of a predator waiting for the perfect opening. His face does the thing it started doing the exact second he realized the truth—the sealed-off, clinical armor opening entirely, making the devoted father underneath completely visible. His scarred hands wrap around a ceramic coffee mug. His thumb traces the rim with the same quiet reverence he uses to trace Tyra’s birthmark.
Nick stands at the front window. His massive arms are crossed tightly over his chest. He told me an hour ago that the perimeter is clean, the night shift was secure, and Tiffany is currently navigating the winding mountain road. I did not ask what comes after. Some conversations belong strictly to the tactical realm. This specific morning belongs entirely to Tyra, the grey wolf, and pancake loyalty.
Rafe is outside in the freezing air, manually checking the perimeter sensors he trusts significantly more than casual conversation.