Page 62 of Push My Buttons
The thought should probably freak me out more than it does. Sharing a woman with another man—with Jace of all people—wasn't exactly on my five-year plan. But somehow, with Wren, itmakes perfect sense. She needs both of us. And maybe, in some way I'm not ready to fully examine, we need each other too.
After using the bathroom, I head to the kitchen for water. That's when I see it.
A note on the counter. Right where the flowers had been.
My blood turns to ice as I approach slowly, as if the paper might bite. The handwriting is neat, deliberate, almost mechanical in its precision:
"I MISS YOUR VOICE, LILLIANA. SOON."
"Fuck," I whisper, grabbing the counter to steady myself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Someone was here. In this apartment. While we slept. While Wren slept.
My first instinct is to wake them both, to sound the alarm, but I force myself to think. Wren finally looks peaceful after days of fear. And if someone was here and didn't hurt her—didn't even wake us—then perhaps there's no immediate danger.
But the note... Jesus Christ, the note. "I miss your voice." Has this person heard her speak? Before the attack? And "soon"—what the hell does that mean?
I take my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of the note, careful not to touch it. Evidence. Then I start a methodical search of the apartment, checking windows, doors, any possible entry point. The front door with its new lock appears untouched. The windows are all secure. Nothing seems disturbed or out of place.
How the fuck did they get in?
I'm on my third circuit of the apartment when I hear movement from the bedroom. Jace appears in the doorway, hair rumpled from sleep, squinting slightly without his glasses.
"Coffee," he mumbles, moving toward the kitchen. Then he stops, suddenly more alert as he takes in my expression. "What's wrong?"
I gesture him over to the counter, pointing at the note without touching it. His eyes widen as he reads it, body going completely still in that way he has when processing something disturbing.
"When?" he asks, voice low enough not to carry to the bedroom.
"Found it just now," I reply, keeping my own voice equally quiet. "I've checked the whole apartment. No sign of forced entry. Nothing else disturbed."
Jace's fingers begin tapping against his thigh—three quick taps, two slow, three quick again. I've noticed the pattern before but never really thought about it. It's soothing for him, I realize. A way to process stress or intense thought.
"They were here while we slept," he says, the words carrying the weight of their implication.
"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair, fighting the urge to punch something. "Could have hurt her. Could have hurt any of us. But didn't."
"Because we were here," Jace says, eyes still fixed on the note. "They're playing with her. With us."
"Fucking psychopath," I mutter, leaning against the counter. "What's the play here? What do they want with her?"
Jace's tapping increases slightly in tempo. "Control. Dominance. To reclaim what they see as theirs." His voice is clinically detached, analytical in a way that should be disturbing but is actually reassuring. He's thinking, not reacting. "The reference to her voice suggests a connection to before the attack. Someone who knew her then."
"Someone who's been watching her for a long time," I add, the realization making my skin crawl.
"We need to make sure she's never alone," Jace says, the tapping finally stopping as he reaches a decision. "Not for a minute."
"Agreed," I say immediately. "We can take shifts. One of us can work from the café during her shifts. Or one of us can work from home when she's here."
"When she games, we game with her," Jace continues, building on the plan.
"And if she wants to cam—" I start.
"One of us stays in the apartment," Jace finishes. "Not on camera, just... present. Security."
I nod, relieved we're on the same page. "We don't take away her autonomy," I say firmly. "That's important. She's had enough control stripped from her."
"We protect without confining," Jace agrees. "Support without suffocating."
