Page 10 of Seeking Shadows

I can’t really ask Charlie to train me on that—too risky. I know I’ve got eyes on me now. I’ve been warned.

So, I guess I’m gonna have to make my sweet chaos do the training since my fighting skills are on par with my Granny. Hell, she’d probably do it better than me if she were still alive.

My phone buzzes, telling me I’ve got a new message, and I expect it to be Charlie—but it’s not.

Kyle:Are you good, bro?

Weird. My brother doesn’t usually check in like that. He’s a rock.

Kyle:Crazy story... hmm... Liam, your nephew by the way, apparently loves drawing like you. Must be your DNA, since I’m fucking clueless about how to do it. Come visit.

Abby was definitely by his side while he typed. Kyle would never write that much. My brother invented monosyllabic communication.

I don’t reply—not because I don’t want to see them, but because there’s no way I can explain this shift in me without sounding suspicious.

Kyle seems happy, though, so at least he’s okay.

Even though we match in bruises, I see his healing bit by bit. Mine, though... I’m not sure if they’ll ever be fixed.

Honestly, I don’t even know how to go back. I don’t have to face my mom anymore, because thankfully my wife took care of that for me.

But at the same time, I’m not exactly the best person to talk to about feelings. It’s not like I can just walk up and say,"Hey bro, hey sis, I’m sorry I disappeared from your lives for years. It’s just that being abused by our mom left permanent scars on how I saw everything. I could’ve gone to therapy, but I thought moving to different countries—and eventually states—would fix things. It was never about you, but now I’ve missed so much of your lives that part of me is afraid you’ll never accept me back... not as I am, at least.”

I can’t exactly say that, but part of me wishes it would be easier to just tell the truth instead of running away. But then there’s that other part of me— the one that refuses to be seen as a victim. I know they had it just as fucked up as I did.

A second message lights up my phone, and I expect it to be Kyle, but it’s Tristan, Mia’s bodyguard. He tells me the coast is clear, so I step out of the sleek, expensive car I definitelydid notacquire legally. It’s a good cover, and I have no plans of returning it.

I’ve made one thing clear—Mia’s treatment is handled bymyteam. No Cartel interference. If anyone’s going to deal with her, it’s me. No one else touches my wife.

I don’t bother ringing the doorbell. I just walk in, catching sight of the Cartel guards stationed outside. They don’t even blink at me. Nico must be desperate to make this deal with Mitchell if he’s following my lead so obediently.

Upstairs, I find Mia sprawled across the bed like she belongs here—like she hasn’t spent the past few weeks unraveling every last thread of my sanity. She’s wearing a white top, thin fabric resting against her skin, and a short black skirt that barely covers the curve of her thighs. My eyes catch on the way she moves—slow, careless, like she has all the time in the world. Like she isn’t the reason I haven’t been able to breathe right.

She doesn’t look up right away, too busy scrolling through her phone, tapping her fingers against the screen with that absentminded ease she always has. But then she sees me.

And she smiles.

Not the guarded kind. Not the teasing, play-it-off kind. No—this one isreal, soft around the edges, like she’s actually happy to see me. Like she didn’t walk away. Like she didn’t leave me behind with nothing but the ghost of her touch and the weight of everything she didn’t say.

It hits me harder than I want to admit.

Because she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I hate that.

I hate the way my body reacts before my mind can stop it, the way my breath shortens, the way my fingers twitch like they already know the shape of her waist, the warmth of her skin. I should be angry. Iamangry. But it doesn’t stop the craving. It never does.

And she knows it.

Because Mia doesn’t just sit there—she stretches, slow and deliberate, her skirt shifting just enough to test my patience.

"You took your time," she says, voice light, like she’s not the reason I’ve been pacing the floor, like I haven’t spent too many nights trying to pull myself back together.

I exhale sharply, jaw tight. "You can drop the act."

She tilts her head, lips curling. "Look who’s talking about acting. Mr. I’m-So-Unbothered."

My fingers flex at my sides. "Unbotheredisn’t the word I’d use."

"How is Figaro?"

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