Still, Clinton stayed, matching his pace. Too smooth for a man in dress shoes on a sandy beach. His posture hadn’t shifted an inch—shoulders squared, spine straight, like he was on parade.
“You don’t trust Law,” Clinton said lightly, as if stating the weather. “You don’t have to say it. I know it.”
Dave’s jaw worked, but he didn’t answer.
“He complicates things,” Clinton went on. “Stone’s loyalty is…divided. History with Law. Familiarity. You saw it.” His tone tightened, just enough to slip under the skin. “That’s not what you need right now.”
Dave’s chest pulled tight, faint at first. He exhaled through his nose, lengthening his stride.
Clinton slid in closer. “You need consistency. Someone who doesn’t bleed for you only when it suits him. Someone who doesn’t have ghosts in every corner of the room.”
The ache crawled deeper under Dave’s sternum. He shifted a hand into his pocket, pressing fingers against the spot.
The afternoon sun shimmered on the water.
Dave’s shoulders were tense, his pace deliberate, but Clinton saw the cracks.
He always saw them.
Stone didn’t. Stone never noticed the strain, the way Dave carried too much in silence. Law wouldn’t either—he was all attitude and history.
But Clinton noticed. He always noticed.
The pressure surged sharply. Dave slowed, breath shortening, the surf roaring louder in his ears.
“I handled Sparrow’s drop for you,” Clinton pressed. “Catalogued every manifest before anyone else. I kept you on track when the others argued. I’ve been at your side through all of it.” His voice softened, almost intimate. “I see you…Dave. They don’t.”
“Clinton—” His voice cracked low.
When the hell had Clinton’s care turned into an obsession?
And how the fuck had he missed it?
To be fair, he’d noticed pieces over the last several months. Shoved them off because one—he would never feel the same way. And two—Stone.
He loved Stone.
Shit.
HelovedStone.
The house was never quiet, but this silence felt wrong.
Stone checked the study again—empty. The desk was bare of coffee, a folder left open. Dave’s jacket missing. Clinton’s tablet gone.
Rip looked up from the kitchen when he entered, chewing on a chunk of bread. “You seen him?”
Stone shook his head once.
Winter frowned, tossing down a slice of cheese. “Clinton’s not around either.”
Something cold slotted into Stone’s chest. He didn’t need more than that.
“Rip, Winter—you’re with me. Law, check the perimeter. Viper, stay with Sparrow’s drop.” His voice was steel.
“I’m helping,” Boston said from the doorway.
“You stay close,” Rip growled.
