The door creaked open, breaking into Dave’s thoughts.
“Sir?” Clinton’s voice. Smooth. Polite. A little too careful.
Dave didn’t look up right away. He’d learned long ago that Clinton never interrupted without a reason.
“What is it?”
Clinton stepped inside, closing the heavy wood door behind him. “I was going through the roster. Something caught my attention. This…Lawson Steel. Law. Operative out of Vegas. You brought him back into rotation?”
Dave glanced at him, one brow arched. Law wasn’t from Vegas, but he didn’t correct the fact.
“Viper did. Why?”
Clinton lingered by the fireplace, feigning casual interest. “Just curious. Are Stone and Law close?”
Dave grunted, but said nothing.
“Of course,” Clinton went on smoothly, “close is good. Makes for efficiency. Trust. But I thought I’d mention it, since it wasn’t in the primary file. They have history, don’t they?”
Dave’s hand tightened around the glass. “Yes.”
Clinton tilted his head, the perfect mask of curiosity. “Romantic history?”
Dave shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing, sir. Only—” Clinton let the silence stretch, then shrugged lightly. “Only that sometimes old connectionsresurface. Especially when working together. People…slip back into old habits. This makes them the perfect match.”
Dave’s jaw clenched. He hated how easily the words hit home, how fast his mind conjured up an unwanted image—Stone laughing with Law.
Clinton must’ve seen enough. He dipped his head. “Apologies if I overstepped. I’ll leave you to your work.”
With a soft click, the door shut behind him, but the echo of suggestion lingered.
Dave stared into the glass, his reflection fractured in the amber. Old rhythms. Old connections. He’d told himself he didn’t care about Stone’s past, that what they had was steady enough, solid enough.
But it wasn’t solid now, was it?
Because they didn’t have shit.
He and Stone had parted with only a soft goodbye.
According to Viper, Stone was done with his assignment with Law. Morrison was in custody, and the bunker was secured before the perps could locate the entrance.
But Stone hadn’t checked in.
Dave had come back here, chasing intel, pretending it was only the mission driving him.
The truth sat heavier.
He hadn’t wanted to see Stone return to the ranch with Law at his side. Not when thoughts of Stone and Law’s easy partnership stirred something ugly in his chest.
What he did want—what kept flashing back uninvited—was last night at the paddock fence. The way Stone had crowded in close, big body brushing against him, heat searing through the November chill. Dave hadn’t moved. He’d let himself feel it—let himself want it.
He didn’t hate the memory; he hated how badly he wanted more. And he hated worse that Clinton’s poison made himquestion whether Stone wanted it too, or if it was only him replaying that moment.
He finished the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down harder than necessary.
The fire in the grate snapped. The logs shifted. He watched the flames twist and spit, his thoughts doing the same.
