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Quillan’s smile goes crooked. “I believe you.”

Mathias’s jaw works as if he’s chewing over what to say. “People are not always honest.”

“I am,” I say. “I didn’t go to the police. I didn’t even tell my mom. She thinks he ran off with some woman.”

I hear how desperate I sound. It isn’t a lie, but it feels weak and pathetic and obvious, like a last-ditch plea from a witness in a gangster movie. Please don’t shoot me; I’ll keep my mouth shut, I swear.

I clench Rabbit until I can feel the beans inside shift. “I mean, why would I tell anyone? They wouldn’t believe me.”

Quillan’s gaze softens for a split second before he schools it back into something flat. “We needed to see you for ourselves. That’s all. You’re not in trouble, and you’re not a loose end. Are you?” He says it with a tilt of his head, like he’s worried for me, even though his expression never quite settles into anything as soft as concern.

“I’m not,” I manage, the words scraping up my dry throat.

The front door slams open with such force that the frame shudders, making me jump from the couch. I barely have time to get my feet under me before Adrien fills the doorway, backlit by the sun. He doesn’t enter so much as invade, his presence sucking all the air from the room. His hair looks as if he’s been running his hands through it, and his leather jacket hangs open over a sweat-damp t-shirt that clings to his heaving chest. The scent of cold air, gasoline, and copper trails him.

His eyes—wide and blazing—sweep the room in one rapid assessment, then he’s moving toward me, his boots heavy on the hardwood.

“Kammie.”

I don’t think. I just run. Rabbit tumbles from my lap to the floor, forgotten. I crash into him hard enough that he has to plant his foot back to keep us both upright. My arms lock around his waist, face pressed into the familiar smell of leather and his skin. His hands are everywhere at once—palming my back, cupping my neck, fingers combing through my hair, thumb brushing my cheekbone—checking for damage.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” His voice is rough, breathless.

I lift my head. His eyes dart over every feature, searching for bruises I don’t have.

“Did they touch you?”

“No.”

“Threaten you?”

“I don’t think so?”

His palm cups my cheek, calluses scraping gently against my skin. I lean into the touch, my own hands fisting in his jacket.

“I’m okay.”

The tension in his face doesn’t ease—it just shifts, hardening as he turns toward the sitting room. Quillan remains lounging on the couch, one ankle crossed over his knee. Mathias hasn’t moved from the chair, fingers steepled calmly. They look like men waiting for a bus, not two dangerous figures in our living room. Adrien looks like he’s about to tear the house apart with his bare hands.

“Hello to you too,” Quillan drawls.

Adrien moves, positioning himself in front of me—not fully hiding me, but placing his body between mine and the Grecos. I immediately grab handfuls of his jacket from behind, holding on like an anchor. Mathias’s eyes track the movement.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Adrien’s voice drops low.

Mathias raises his chin slightly. “I grew tired of waiting.”

“I said I’d be around later.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Quillan’s gaze drops to Adrien’s hands. I follow his look—the knuckles of his flesh hand are scraped raw and swollen, skin split across two fingers with fresh blood beading along the cracks. My stomach turns.

Adrien notices me looking and curls his hand into a fist.

“Personal errand,” Quillan remarks lightly.

Daddy’s head snaps toward him. “Kill yourself.”