Am I? I think about Zola's face earlier, the way she'd melted against me when I kissed her, the trust implicit in how she lets me care for her even when it terrifies her. Would I tell her about nights like this? About the blood under my nails and the systematic breaking of men who cross us?
"I don't know." The admission costs something. "But I won't start lying now."
"Noble." But there's no mockery in it, just observation. "That's going to get complicated."
"Everything about us is complicated."
"True enough." He starts walking again, headed for where we left the cars. "At least you're consistent."
I follow, my mind already shifting forward. Marcus is handled. The message will spread through our distribution network within twenty-four hours. Problem solved. But there's something else I need to handle, something I've been thinking about and am finally ready to take the jump on.
"Hey." I catch up to Stellan, matching his stride. "You busy after this?"
He glances at me sideways. "Define busy."
"Not bleeding someone. Not moving product. Not doing anything that can't wait."
"Then no, I'm not busy." Suspicion creeps into his tone. "Why?"
I flex my damaged hand, feeling the sting spread up my wrist. "Need you to come somewhere with me."
"Where?"
"You'll see when we get there."
Stellan stops walking entirely, turning to study my face with that unnerving intensity he has. Like he's reading words I haven't written yet, parsing meaning from silence.
"This about her?"
"Yeah."
"Christ." But he's already moving toward his car, resignation in every line of his body. "Fine. But if this is some romantic bullshit where you need me to help you pick out flowers or whatever the fuck people do, I'm out."
"It's not flowers."
"Then what is it?"
I don't answer, just head for my own car. He'll follow. He always does, even when he's giving me shit about it. That's the thing about Stellan—he needles and mocks and acts like he doesn't understand half of what I do, but when it matters, he's there. No questions. No conditions.
Brothers. In blood and everything that comes after.
The engine rumbles to life under my hands. I pull out my phone, checking for messages from Zola. Nothing yet. She's probably still asleep in my bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like both of us now, her dark hair spilled across my pillow.
The image makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
Stellan climbs into the passenger seat. "You telling me where we're going or am I guessing?"
"You'll see." I put the car in gear, Marcus already fading from my thoughts. "And Stel? Thanks."
He looks at me for a long moment, something almost like understanding flickering across his face.
"Yeah, yeah. Let's go before I change my mind about the whole domesticated thing being entertaining."
The streets of Philadelphia slide past my windows, early morning light turning everything soft gold and shadow. Most of the city's still asleep, just delivery trucks and die-hard joggers breaking the silence. I prefer it this way—empty roads, nobody to navigate around, just the hum of the engine and Stellan's occasional sigh from the passenger seat.
My knuckles ache where I grip the steering wheel, the splits still raw but already starting to scab over. I should probably wash them when I get home, but there won't be time. Zola will be gone by then—she has classes this morning, then her shift at that overpriced café in Center City where tourists pay eight dollars for mediocre coffee. She'll have slipped out of my bed while I was handling Marcus, maybe left her scent on my pillow, a ghost of warmth in the sheets.
The thought makes me grip the wheel harder.
