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The rain fell softly on the road below, and Riley trailed her fingers down the cold glass. She could have ignored the flicker of doubt every time Saint’s face flashed with that careful blankness, every time her direct question wasn’t answered.

At least he’s not pretending he’s telling me everything.

She knew her safety was his top priority.

But she wasn’t sure a long-term relationship could be built on personal security. She wanted more.

It’s what we make it.

It was the middle of the night, and the flickering streetlamp outside the back of the shop did little to light the alley below. Maybe she was better off not knowing what was down there.

Isn’t that exactly how you got into this shit in the first place?

Kristi’s soft breaths kept rhythm in the quiet, and Riley could just make out the murmur of voices in the kitchen.

Saint’s computer chair was vacant, and she had no idea what they were still doing up, or when he’d left the room. She wanted to know where he was. He still hadn’t slept more than a few hours that afternoon. Wheeler said they’d trained for it, but still. It didn’t seem healthy.

When will things go back to normal?

Normal? Ha.

After Saint’s near-death experience—although no one else seemed to be treating it like that—they’d all just… stayed another night. No one discussed it, no one left.

Trauma-bonded.

Aaron and Wheeler treated the loft like a crash pad, available whenever they needed it. It was how Kristi and Riley had grown up at Riley’s house too. The key was under the rock in the garden, always.

Kristi loved it, her PowerPoint seemingly forgotten, now that she was part of it.

She probably thought getting drugged was a small price to pay.

Aaron watched Kristi like a hawk, and Saint watched them both. Aaron was still mad that Kristi had gotten roofied on Saint’s watch, and Riley had yet to pinpoint how that made her feel.

Maybe being managed was the cost of safety.

They had to be realistic. Too much had happened to be precious about it.

She had no idea how Nico would react to everything or if he would think Saint was responsible for Gio too. The look they’d shared at the club had too much meaning for her to forget it.

But Saint wasn’t responsible. The bikers had let him go.

He didn’t do it.

She rubbed her arms.

She wasn’t dating a murderer.

The news suggested that Gio’d been killed before the explosion, but police couldn’t confirm or deny. Calling Andrew had crossed her mind, but he probably wouldn’t tell her, even if he did know. He’d just be pissed she’d known the guy.

Really pissed.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to give the person who killed him a thank you or run screaming. There were too many questions clamouring for attention, and every time she’d dozed next to Kristi, she’d had dreams that didn’t make sense, and she’d woken up.

Or subconsciously she’d been looking for Saint. Even now, part of her scanned for him, like a sweeping searchlight.

What did you call a constant preoccupation with another person?

She’d never felt this way about Andrew.