Page 70 of Knuckles & Knives
I slip away before they notice me, my heart tight in my chest. This is what it means to belong—not just to fight side by side but to bleed and break and still be welcome after.
Axel isn’t healed. None of us are. But for the first time, I think we’re starting to believe that maybe we could be.
Trust me. There are times when I think what the hell am I doing giving my heart to four dangerous men, and I’m sure I’ll think it again, but right now, we all fit.
Hours later,Kieran pulls me aside before he leaves to handle his uncle’s response to Viktor’s death.
“One down,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “One to go.”
“Richard’s next?”
“Richard’s next, and after tonight, after what Axel just proved we’re capable of, I don’t think my dear uncle is going to know what hit him.”
I watch him drive away then return to the medical bay where my other three men are finally allowing themselves to rest. Even though it’s dinnertime, Dom is already asleep, his face peaceful for the first time since the shooting. Axel is curled in his chair again, but this time, his sleep looks natural and untroubled.
Marcus glances up as I enter. “All clear?”
“All clear. Get some sleep.”
“In a minute. I want to finish?—”
“Marcus.” I use the tone that brooks no argument. “Sleep. Now.”
He looks like he wants to protest then nods and shuts his laptop. “Yes, ma’am.”
I settle into the remaining chair, surrounded by my sleeping men, and allow myself to finally relax. We’ve faced down ghosts and mercenaries and family betrayals. We’ve protected our own and eliminated our enemies.
Tomorrow, we’ll start planning Richard Sterling’s destruction, but for now, we’re all here, all alive, all together. In our violent, complicated world, that’s the closest thing to a happy ending we’re likely to get.
And it’s enough. More than enough.
It’s everything.
CHAPTER 22
Dom, Axel, and Kieran are still asleep. Maybe it’s Marcus opening his laptop that wakes me, but when he notices I’m awake, he gives me a sheepish smile.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“There’s work to be done. I just wish…”
“What do you need?”
“My office is better set up.”
I stand. “Then let’s go.”
It’s almost nine at night by the time we arrive, and Marcus immediately turns on his equipment. Time to get to work.
Hours later, I say, “Show me again how you traced the shell companies.”
Marcus looks up from his array of monitors, dark eyes reflecting the blue glow of code streaming across multiple screens. We’ve been at this for six hours straight, mapping the Sterling Syndicate’s financial network with the methodical precision of surgeons preparing for a complex operation.
“Third screen from the left,” he says, his voice carrying that focused intensity that means his analytical mind is firing on all cylinders. “Richard Sterling thinks he’s clever usinglayers of offshore accounts and dummy corporations, but every transaction leaves a digital fingerprint.”
I lean closer to study the data, conscious of the way Marcus’s breathing changes when I move into his personal space. Even after everything we’ve been through, there’s still that electric tension between us, the pull of two strategic minds recognizing their perfect match.
“Here,” he continues, his finger tracing connections on the screen. “Sterling Industries transfers fifty million to Meridian Holdings in the Caymans. Meridian then splits the money between four different shell companies in Panama, Luxembourg, Hong Kong, and Dubai.”
