Page 77 of Make Them Cry
I look up at him, biting my lip. “And what about Regent? He’s the puppet master, right?”
Gage’s jaw flexes. “Yeah. He’s smart. Slippery. We don’t even know his real identity yet. But we will.”
There’s a determined fire in his voice I’ve only ever heard when he talks about protecting me. It makes something inside me flutter—something deep and visceral.
I smile softly. “Well then, hero hacker… want to spend the day with me?”
His lips tilt up. “Thought you’d never ask.”
I change, and then we head to his place so he can get ready. Then we head out. The sun’s out, air crisp. Gage wears a hoodieand jeans, casual but still hot enough that I catch three women turning their heads as we pass. I take his hand possessively. He doesn’t let go.
We walk to a nearby café. He buys me a matcha latte, and we sit on the patio in the sunlight. We don’t talk about work or trauma or cyberstalkers.
Instead, we talk about favorite childhood video games. His wasGoldenEye 64. Mine wasSpyro the Dragon.
“I used to try to burn all the sheep,” I admit.
He laughs, head thrown back. “You’re terrifying.”
“You love it.”
He reaches across the table and brushes his knuckle down my cheek. “Yeah. I really do.”
And I melt. Ifuckingmelt.
We’re walking back to the car when we see them.
Helena. And Andrew.
In the middle of the city park.
Kissing.
As in, full-on, lips-devoured, tongue-to-tongue, scandalously intimatekissing.
I freeze mid-step. “Wait—what?”
Gage grabs my elbow. “River, wait?—”
I spin toward him, heart slamming against my ribs. “Andrew’smarried, right? With two kids?”
“Yep,” Gage says grimly. “He is.”
“And Helena works in HR. Just like Tasha.”
We look at each other. Something shifts in the air between us. Something sharp. Dangerous.
“I think we should follow them,” I say.
Gage doesn’t argue.
They walk along the park path, hands brushing occasionally. Helena looks around a few times—clearly trying to keep this secret. Andrew looks far too relaxed for a man cheating on his wife in broad daylight.
They stop at a food truck. Talk. Exchange something—too quick to see.
“What was that?” I whisper, gripping Gage’s arm.
“No idea,” he mutters. “But we’re logging this.”
