Page 43 of The Marriage Debt

Then I hear Mateo.

He’s yelling commands—sharp, clipped. No hesitation. His voice cuts through the chaos like a megaphone. I don’t see where he comes from, but he’s there. His hand grabs my arm and pulls us both upright in one motion. His other hand is still holding a gun.

I stumble. He keeps us moving.

His guards swarm past us, rifles up, faces hard. Rafe grabs one of them and points toward the outer wall. Someone else yells about the breached perimeter. I don’t turn to look. Mateo’s hand is still on me, his grip like iron, and Lev’s feet barely touch the ground as we’re pulled toward the front steps.

The door is open before we reach it. The entryway is dark and I slump against a wall, holding Lev to my chest while I tremble and sob. I'm in shock, or I'm wounded. I can't tell. Nothing makes sense right now. I'm too afraid.

"Are you hurt?" Mateo barks.

I slowly meet his eyes as the sound of Lev crying registers. He crawls deeper into my lap and buries his face against my chest. I cradle the back of his head with one hand, the other trembling against the wall. I don’t speak. I can’t. My lungs are too tight and the pressure behind my eyes is too much.

He doesn’t wait for my answer. He turns to the nearest guard and gives three clipped commands, too fast for me to follow. The man disappears down the hall, and two others move past us, speaking low into their comms.

Lev is still sobbing, but quieter now. His little hands are clenched into the front of my coat. I stroke his hair without thinking, fingers shaking as they pass through the strands. Mateo paces two steps away, gun still drawn. He hasn’t looked at me again.

“Get them upstairs,” he says to Rafe.

Rafe nods and holds out his hand, waiting. Not for Lev, for me, but I don’t move.

“I can walk,” I say.

“I didn’t ask,” Mateo snaps, his eyes flicking back to me. “Get him out of the entryway. I want eyes on that perimeter from every angle. And find the breach—someone gave a signal.”

Rafe doesn’t argue. He crouches down, speaks to Lev in a low, even tone, and lifts him gently out of my arms. Lev’s still crying, but he lets Rafe carry him. I push myself off the wall and follow. My legs feel like water. Every step is too loud in my ears, even though no one is talking anymore.

We reach the second floor, and Rafe brings Lev into one of the guest rooms off the hallway. It’s smaller, easier to secure. He sets Lev down on the bed and pulls the blackout curtains tight before checking the locks on the windows.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and reach for Lev. His face is blotchy, tear-streaked. He curls up against me without a word. Rafe kneels in front of us, checking both our faces. His eyes settle on the blood on my cheek.

“Head wound,” he says. “Surface only. You’ll be fine.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“I’ll post outside. Don’t leave this room," he says, then he’s gone, and we’re alone.

I hold Lev for a long time. The adrenaline drains slower than I expect. I think I should cry again, but I don’t. I just sit there and feel the weight of him in my arms. His breaths slow, his fingers relax their grip. He drifts off eventually, exhausted from fear.

I lay him down gently and watch him sleep. Only then do I go into the adjoining bathroom and rinse the blood from my face. It’s mine, like Rafe said. A gash across the cheekbone. It burns under the water, but I don’t flinch. I just keep cleaning until the cloth comes away clean. The bleeding’s stopped, but it’ll bruise by morning. The skin around it is tight, swollen. I rinse the cloth, wring it out, and leave it folded on the counter like it matters. Like anything about this feels manageable now.

When I step back into the room, Mateo’s already there. He doesn’t speak until the door clicks shut behind him. His eyes land on me like crosshairs—flat, unreadable, too steady for how fast his chest is rising. He walks farther into the room. I move toward the bed and curl one hand around Lev’s shoulder as he sleeps. His breathing is soft now. Deep. I won’t risk waking him.

Mateo stops two feet away. The gun is gone. His jacket’s missing. His sleeves are still rolled to the elbows, but the blood is washed off his hands. His voice, when it comes, is low and surgical.

“Where was your detail?”

The question cuts clean. No build-up, no preamble—just a blade to the throat.

“I had Rafe,” I say. “He was at the car.” I'm cowering inside, terrified of him again.

“Where was the second?” His glare scares me. It makes him look evil.

“There wasn’t one.” My voice is low, almost apologetic, but I won’t apologize. “No one told me I needed two for school drop-off.”

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. The disbelief isn’t even masked. It rises off him in waves that ripple through the air between us. Then he lets out a laugh—just one. It’s short, dry, humorless. The sound lands like an open-handed slap across the face.

“You always need two.” His voice stays low, like he knows waking Lev during this bickering match wouldn't be good. After what we just went through…

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