Page 50 of Brick's Retribution

I watch her work, noting how naturally she moves through the space.

This isn't just a safe house—it's a piece of her family history, a connection to the mother she lost.

"Are you thinking about trying to contact your father?" I ask.

She shakes her head, frustration evident. "No, he said he’d make contact with me first, but…I want to hear from him." She turns from the equipment, and I can see the worry she's trying to hide. "This doesn’t feel right, and it’s getting to me, Brick."

The confirmation of what we already suspected settles between us like a lead weight.

Diego's betrayal goes deeper than just selling us out—it's compromised Mateo's entire organization.

"We're going to figure it out," I tell her, though I'm not sure how. "Once we reach the clubhouse, Amara will have resources we can use."

She nods, but I can see the doubt in her dark eyes.

The woman who impressed me the first moment I met her is showing cracks in her armor.

I find myself studying her more intently—the way she moves with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of her perfume cutting through the dust and sweat of our journey, the intelligence that flashes in her eyes when she's processing information.

Everything about her draws me in, even though I should know better than to get involved with someone I’m on a protection detail with.

"You're staring again," she says without looking at me, unpacking her bag.

"Thinking," I correct, though she's not wrong.

"About what?"

About how you make me forget why I'm here.

About how protecting you has become personal in ways I didn't expect.

About how much I want to taste those lips that always seem to be set in that determined line.

"About how to keep you alive," I say instead.

She pauses in her unpacking, something flickering across her expression. "Is that all I am to you? A mission? A quest? An assignment?"

The question catches me off guard with its directness. "You were," I admit. "When this started."

"And now?"

Now you're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before I sleep.

Now the thought of someone hurting you makes me see red in ways that have nothing to do with the club.

"Now it's complicated," I say.

She moves closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes. "Complicated how?"

"Imani..." I start, but she's standing right in front of me now, her hand coming up to rest on my chest.

"Tell me," she says softly.

The words get caught in my throat as her fingers trace over the fabric of my shirt.

Every nerve ending where she touches feels like it's on fire.

This is dangerous, but I can't seem to care about the risks right now.

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