Sleep pulls at me eventually, dragging me down into dreams that are always the same. Xavier's hands on my body. Xavier's voice in my ear telling me I'm his. Xavier looking at me with love instead of devastation, with warmth instead of the cold shutdown that ended everything.
But even in my dreams, even in the fantasy where he forgives me and takes me back and we find our way through the wreckage of what I did, there's guilt. So much guilt. Because he should hate me. I killed his brother. I lied about it for weeks. I destroyed his trust in the most fundamental way possible.
His hatred is justified. His anger is earned. And no amount of wishing things were different will change the fact that I deserve exactly what I got
16
VALENTINA
The penthouse sitsin the heart of Dallas, forty-three stories up where the city sprawls beneath you like something you could own if you wanted it badly enough. Cast has always preferred height—likes being able to see threats coming from miles away, likes the control that comes with elevation. The glass and steel building is one of his legitimate holdings, the kind of property that looks clean on paper even if the money that bought it wasn't.
I park my bike in the underground garage and take the private elevator up, the one that requires a key card I've had since I was sixteen. The same card that still works, which means Cast never revoked my access even after I left. Even after I chose the Raiders over the cartel, over family, over everything he'd trained me to be.
The doors open directly into the penthouse. Marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, furniture that costs more than most people make in a year. It's beautiful in that cold, untouchable way that everything in Cast's world is beautiful—designed to impress, to intimidate, to remind you exactly who you're dealing with.
"Valentina." Willow's voice comes from the living room. She's standing by the windows with that particular grace she has, that deadly elegance that makes you forget she could kill you six ways before you hit the ground. But there's something different about her silhouette, something that makes me stop and really look?—
"Holy shit," I say, the words coming out before I can filter them. "Are you pregnant?"
She turns fully and laughs—a real laugh, warm and unguarded in a way Willow rarely is. Her hand comes to rest on the small but unmistakable curve of her belly, visible even through the expensive silk of her dress. "Five months."
My brain does the math automatically, cataloging the timeline, the implications. "Yours?" I look around for Cast, because my brother has always been territorial about Willow in a way that would make this either very expected or very complicated.
"No." Her smile widens, and there's something soft in it that I've never seen before. "Vincent's."
The name lands with unexpected warmth. Vincent—one of Cast's best friends, and Willow’s other partner with the last being Damien. "About damn time," I say, and I mean it. "He's been in love with you since forever."
"I know." Her smile takes on a knowing quality. "Took me a while to catch up." She steps closer, studies my face with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You look terrible."
"Thanks," I mutter. "That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept? Ate something that wasn't from a vending machine?" She pauses. "Showered?"
"Yesterday. I think." The days have blurred together. "Maybe the day before."
She shakes her head. "Cast is in his office. Go. I'll have food sent up."
"I'm not hungry?—"
"I don't care." Her voice takes on that edge that reminds you she runs security for one of the most dangerous men in Texas. "You're eating. And probably sleeping. But first, talk to your brother."
I make my way through the penthouse to Cast's office—the only room with actual walls instead of open concept, the only space where he conducts the business he doesn't want overheard. The door is open. He's sitting behind his desk, dark hair perfectly styled, suit probably worth more than my bike, looking every inch the legitimate businessman he pretends to be.
Until you see his eyes. Vivid emerald and calculating, the eyes of a man who's killed more people than he's saved and lost sleep over exactly none of them.
He looks up when I enter, and something passes across his face—surprise, maybe, or the closest thing to it that Cast allows. "Valentina."
"Can I come in?"
"You're already in." But he gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I close the door behind me and sink into the leather chair. It's too comfortable, the kind of comfort that makes you forget to keep your guard up. I force myself to sit straight, to meet his eyes.
We look at each other for a long moment. We've never been close—not in the way siblings are supposed to be close. Cast only took me in because my mother abandoned me, and I was his only living relative, trained to kill by our father’s right hand man. He knows that warmth was never part of the curriculum.
"What happened?" he asks finally. No preamble. No small talk. Classic Cast.
"What makes you think something happened?"