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I’m about to head to my own bedroom to stroke one out to the memory of Kamden shivering, cute little balls pulled up flush to his body, pink-hued cock jerking as he sprays rope after rope of cum into the bath.

But just as I step away from Kamden’s locked door, my phone vibrates against my thigh. I pull it out, considering putting it on silent, then see the name lighting up the screen.

Quillan.

I answer. “This had better be urgent. I told your brother I didn’t want to be bothered today.”

“Always lovely hearing your voice too.” Quillan’s tone is light, almost amused.

“Quillan,” I growl.

“It’s urgent,” he promises.

In the background of the call, I hear something heavy hit something even harder, then a muffled, pained moan.

“What happened?”

“We found the thread.”

I straighten. “What thread?”

“The one between Milo Cross and the rat feeding him info.”

That gets my full attention. Wade and Milo were idiots. Greedy, short-sighted idiots. And idiots don’t accidentally choose the right storage unit on the right night unless somebody feeds them information. Mathias had suspected a leak from the beginning, and must have put his brother on the scent.

“Who?”

“Paulie.”

The name doesn’t instantly ring a bell. I scour my mind until I land on the right man.

Paulie D’Amato.

He’s mid-level muscle with enough access to be dangerous, but not a man with any real power. Though I wouldn’t be too surprised if he mistook his proximity to power for actually having it. Seems he got too cocky.

“Mathias wants you here,” Quillan says.

I hold the phone to my ear and glance behind me at Kamden’s door. He’s sleeping, has already had water and a snack, and has his sketchbook if he wakes before I’m back. The door is locked tight, the bedroom cam is on, and I’ll make sure the rest of the home is properly secured before I leave.

Still, every cell in my body resents leaving.

“Mathias told me I had the day.”

“He told me to tell you he changed his mind.” A laugh comes from Quillan’s end. Then another dull impact, meaty, like a fist sinking into a slab of meat.

“You torturing him already?” I ask.

“Torture is a loaded word.”

“What are you calling it?”

“Exercise?”

“Jesus. Fine. I’ll be there,” I grunt.

I hang up, send Mathias a brief message that I’ll be there in forty minutes, then go change.

* * *