Page 91 of Possession

“You weren’t my client, Mateo. The client who hired me wanted the body gone, and that’s the service we provided. I’m only telling you now because it’s odd—a Blood Nation member, dead in East Rider territory, and no one saw anything. This has Fabre’s fingerprints written all over it.”

Mateo rubs his jaw, his movements tense. “What do you want from me, Middleton?”

“Fabre’s fucking with me tonight,” I say bluntly. “And yes, my fiancée is involved.”

“He knows she’s your weakness.”

“Yes, it’s no secret I’d burn down this entire city for her. I’m just trying my damndest not to have to.”

Mateo studies me for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. Then he nods. “We all have our Achilles heels, vato.”

“And it usually involves family, doesn’t it?” I remind him of why he owes me a favor in the first place, my voice steady.

“Verdadero,” he mutters what I think is the word truth in Spanish. “What’s the favor?”

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Fabre thinks he’s untouchable. I suggest we use your manpower and my resources to prove him wrong. We put him down like the dog he is.”

I glance at my Rolex. Time is slipping away. “Your job starts immediately. I need to get to the hospital to see my child born. You need to make sure I get there in one piece.”

Mateo smirks, but there’s steel behind it. “With your luck, that sounds like a tall order.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” I reply. “And neither should you.”

Mateo puts me in the back seat of a black SUV flanked by two of his “most trusted” soldiers. Their trustworthiness doesn’t inspire much confidence—they’re stoic and silent, their eyes sharp as they scan the streets, hands never far from their concealed weapons. Every pothole we hit rattles my nerves, and I grip my phone like a lifeline. Vulnerability isn’t something I wear well, and tonight it feels like a second skin I can’t peel off.

As we drive through the darkened streets of East L.A., I tap out a quick text to Christian.

Me:On my way. Keep your head on a swivel.

The last thing I need is for him to be caught off guard. My screen lights up with texts from Lena, rapid-fire messages asking where I am. At least I know Christian hasn’t told her much yet, though that won’t last long. I reply to her as well, keeping it brief.

Me: Almost there.

The hospital looms ahead, its fluorescent lights glaring against the night sky. The soldiers don’t say a word as they pull up to the emergency room entrance, but I feel their eyes on me as I step out. I glance back once—they give me a curt nod, then drive off into the shadows. Mateo keeps his promises, at least for now.

The moment I walk inside, the sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint aroma of stale coffee hits me. The hum of the ER surrounds me—phones ringing, nurses calling out patient names, the shuffle of hurried feet against linoleum floors. But I don’t see any of it because Lena spots me, and her scream cuts through the chaos.

“Hunter!”

She launches herself at me like a bullet train, crashing into my chest with enough force to knock the wind out of me. Her arms wrap around my waist, clutching me like I’m a lifeline, and I hold her just as tightly. For a moment, the world narrows to this embrace, a shared assurance that, despite everything, we’re here, and we’re okay.

“Is she all right?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

Christian appears beside us, his hand landing on my shoulder—a rare gesture that catches me off guard. His usual stoic expression cracks ever so slightly, betraying the stress he’s been under.

“Lars is with her,” he says. “I’ll tell the nurses that you’re here.”

My blood turns to ice at his words. Something about his tone, about the fact thatLarsis with Megan, sends a shiver down my spine.

“Is she dead?” I blurt, the one question I’ve been dreading to ask since I got that first frantic text.

“Dead?” Lena repeats, her face pale with shock. “No, of course not. Go see her!”

I don’t wait for more. My legs carry me down the hallway on autopilot, my heart pounding louder with every step. I push open the door to her room, bracing myself for the worst.

Megan lies on her back, her legs propped up at a ninety-degree angle with pillows. She looks exhausted, her rich skin tone sallow but alive, her hands clasped tightly with Lars’s. His head droops like he’s seconds away from passing out himself.

Our eyes meet the moment she sees me, and relief floods through me like a tidal wave. She’s here. She’s alive. She’s safe.

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