Page 68 of Brick's Retribution

The kiss he gives me is soft and sweet and full of promise.

When we break apart, I'm breathless and aching and completely his.

"Come on," he says, standing and offering me his hand. "Let's go see this room Amara made sure was ready for you."

The guest room is on the second floor, tucked away from the main area of the clubhouse.

It's simple but comfortable—a queen bed with clean white sheets, a dresser, a chair by the window that looks out over the club’s courtyard.

There's a small bathroom with a shower that looks like heaven after days of running.

"I'm going to clean up," I tell Brick, gathering some clothes from my bag.

"I'll be here," he replies, settling into the chair by the window.

Even relaxed, he's watchful, aware of our surroundings in a way that makes me feel safe.

The hot water feels incredible against my skin, washing away the dust and tension of the past few days.

I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat penetrate my muscles, trying to process everything that's happened.

Three days ago, I was Mateo Torres' daughter, living in El Paso, focused on legitimizing the family business.

Now I'm starting to fall for a motorcycle club prospect, preparing to infiltrate an international human trafficking ring, and considering a future I never could have imagined.

All of this should scare the living daylights out of me, instead, I feel like I’m alive.

When I emerge from the bathroom in clean clothes, I find Brick exactly where I left him, but his expression has shifted.

"What is it?" I ask, settling on the edge of the bed.

"Just thinking about what you said earlier. About them always being one step ahead of us." He turns from the window to look at me. "We've been careful, Imani.Reallycareful. But somehow they've tracked us through two cities, multiple safe houses, even underground tunnels."

"I know," I say, frustration creeping into my voice. "I just can't understand how they did it."

I absently reach up to touch St. Christopher's medallion, a habit I've had since childhood when I'm thinking or worried.

The familiar weight of the gold against my throat is comforting, a connection to my mother that's gotten me through countless difficult moments.

But as my fingers close around the medallion, something clicks in my mind.

A horrible, sick realization that makes my stomach drop.

"Oh my God," I breathe, looking down at the necklace.

"What?" Brick is on his feet immediately, reading the distress in my voice.

With shaking fingers, I unclasp the chain and hold the medallion up to the light.

It's beautiful, antique gold with intricate engravings, exactly as I remember from my childhood.

But now, looking at it with suspicious eyes, I can see something that was never there before.

A tiny, almost invisible seam around the edge.

A modification so subtle it's barely noticeable unless you're looking for it.

"This," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's been this the whole time."

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