I wake up alone.
The bed is cold where Xavier should be. Empty. Just rumpled sheets and the faint scent of him—leather and smoke and skin. My body aches in all the right places, a pleasant soreness between my thighs that reminds me of last night. Of the way he made me forget, made me stay present, made me feel something other than the crushing weight of guilt.
For a few hours, I wasn't the girl who might have killed his brother. I was just Valentina. His. Completely his.
I press my face into his pillow and breathe deep, trying to hold onto that feeling for one more moment. But reality is already creeping back in. The memories. The fear. The nightmare that woke me screaming.
The clock on the nightstand reads 10:47 AM. Late for me. I usually can't sleep past dawn anymore—the nightmares won't let me.
I sit up, wincing at the pull of muscles. My tank top is on the floor where I threw it. I pull it on, find my sleep shorts tangledin the sheets. The room is bright with morning sun streaming through the window, cheerful in a way that feels wrong given everything.
Xavier must have gotten himself back to his room somehow. Or maybe Zay helped him. The thought makes me flush—the idea that Zay might have found us tangled together, might have seen the evidence of what we did.
I pad to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face. Look at myself in the mirror. I look like I got fucked thoroughly—swollen lips, dark circles from too little sleep, a hickey blooming purple on my collarbone that Xavier definitely left on purpose. My hair is a disaster, tangled and wild.
I look alive. That's something.
I brush my teeth, run a brush through my hair, try to make myself presentable. Pull on Xavier's oversized Raiders hoodie because I need the armor, the reminder that I belong somewhere, to someone.
My stomach growls. I can't remember the last time I ate a full meal. Yesterday? The day before? Time has gotten slippery lately, hours bleeding into each other.
I head to the front of the house, following the smell of coffee. Maybe I'll find Xavier in the kitchen, maybe I can steal a few more minutes of normalcy before?—
Voices from the living room stop me mid-step.
"Johnson's getting bolder." Asher's voice, flat and factual. No emotion. Just data. "Yesterday he told three prospects they should think about where their loyalties really lie. Not asking. Telling."
I freeze against the hallways wall.
"And George?" Xavier. His voice is stronger than it was a week ago, clearer. More present. The physical therapy is working even if progress is slow.
"George is smarter," Asher replies. "He's not saying anything directly. But he's been in the garage with Marcus's old crew for hours every night. They're planning something."
Marcus. The name sends ice through my veins. I close my eyes, force myself to breathe. Not now. Can't think about that now.
"How long do we have?" Zay asks.
"Days. Maybe a week." Asher's tone doesn't change—still that flat, analytical delivery. "The protection rackets are completely dead. Three more businesses told our collectors to fuck off yesterday. The auto shop is hemorrhaging money because nobody trusts us to do the work. And the bar?—"
"I know about the bar," Xavier interrupts. "Lost the license. Bobby's trying to get it reinstated but it's going to take months."
"We don't have months," Zay says. "We barely have days."
Everything's falling apart. The club, the businesses, the structure we've built. And they're down here strategizing while I’m in the back of the house pretending last night changed anything.
It didn't. Can't. Not when I'm still carrying this secret.
I take the last few steps deliberately loud, letting my footsteps announce me on the hardwood. All three of them turn to look.
Xavier is in his wheelchair at the head of the coffee table. But he's out here in the common area—that's significant progress.Three weeks ago he couldn't transfer from bed to chair without help.
He's mobile now, wheeling himself through the house independently. The physical therapy is working. His core strength is coming back. The movement in his legs is improving incrementally.
He looks better too. Less gray, less like he's fighting constant pain. His eyes are clearer, more focused. The medication dosage must be down.
But right now those eyes are guarded. Calculating. Reading me the way he always does, seeing too much.
"How long have you been listening?" he asks.