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A car passes outside, its headlights briefly illuminating the room. Leo stirs but doesn’t wake, and I hold my breath until he settles.

The coffee I had earlier still buzzes faintly in my system, but it’s not enough to quiet the storm of thoughts in my mind. Howdid I end up here? Married to a man I barely know, living in his mansion, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy for Leo while my world tilts on its axis.

I long for the simplicity Leo knows—the ability to trust completely, to feel safe without questioning every shadow. But my reality is full of sharp edges and hidden threats. Even this moment of peace feels borrowed, temporary, like holding water in cupped hands.

My badge sits heavy in my jacket pocket, a constant reminder of who I am—or who I’m supposed to be. Detective Landry. Protector of the innocent. Now I’m Mrs. King, wife to a man who operates in shades of gray.

I slip out of Leo’s room and head downstairs, my footsteps whisper-soft against the marble stairs. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and moonlight, pristine and untouched. A showroom rather than a home. But I know where Zeke keeps the good stuff—the top shelf of the corner cabinet.

My fingers close around the smooth neck of the gin bottle. The crystal tumbler makes a soft clink as I set it on the counter, and the clear liquid splashes musically as I pour. The familiar scent rises up, promising relief from the thoughts crowding my mind.

I lean against the counter, raising the glass to my lips. The first sip burns pleasantly, and I close my eyes, savoring the warmth spreading through my chest. It’s become a nightly ritual—this quiet moment with my thoughts and my gin, trying to make sense of the mess my life has become.

The soft creak of the floor jolts me from my reverie. My eyes snap open to find Zeke standing in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space. Even in the dim light, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches when his gaze lands on the drink in my hand.

He’s still wearing his suit, though his tie is loosened and his collar unbuttoned. The sight of him stirs something in me that I’d rather not examine too closely. Something that has nothing to do with fear or resentment and everything to do with the way his presence charges the air between us.

“It’s late,” he says, his voice low and rough. He moves into the kitchen with that dominating grace that seems to come so naturally to him. Each step closer sends my pulse skittering, though I refuse to back away. This is my home now too—isn’t that what he keeps telling me?

I take another deliberate sip, meeting his dark gaze over the rim of my glass. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Common problem,” he says as he grabs the bottle of whiskey from the same cabinet.

I lift my chin, studying him over the rim of my glass. The late hour and gin loosen my tongue. “Have you been avoiding me?”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. In the shadowed kitchen, his eyes are nearly black. “Yes.”

The blunt admission catches me off guard. I expected denial, deflection, or that infuriating silence he’s so good at. My fingers tighten around the crystal tumbler. “Why?”

“You needed time to adjust.” He takes a sip of his whiskey before he sets the glass down. He moves closer, his presence filling the space between us. “And I’ve been busy with work.”

“Work?” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “You mean the club? Or your other activities?”

“Both.” His gaze flicks to the gin bottle, then back to me. “I thought you’d appreciate the space, considering how reluctant you were about this arrangement.”

Heat rises to my cheeks as memories of my drunken wedding day surface. “I wasn’t reluctant. I was realistic. This isn’t exactly a fairytale romance.”

“No.” He moves even closer. “It’s not.”

The counter presses against my lower back as I resist the urge to step away from him. “So what is it then? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you married me to protect your interests, and now you can’t even stand to be in the same house.”

Something flashes in his eyes—anger? Frustration? But his voice remains controlled, measured. “You think I’m avoiding you because I can’t stand to be around you?”

“Aren’t you?” The words come out sharper than intended, fueled by two weeks of confusion and sleepless nights.

I lift my glass and toss back what’s left of my gin, savoring the familiar burn. The empty tumbler makes a soft clink as I set it on the marble counter. Without hesitation, I reach for the bottle again, desperate to dull the riot of emotions his proximity stirs up.

But before I can pour, Zeke’s hand closes over mine on the bottle. His touch sends electricity skittering across my skin. The heat of his palm bleeds through my fingers, and my breath catches in my throat.

“That’s enough,” he says, his voice a low rumble vibrating through my chest.

I try to tug the bottle free, but his grip is iron-clad. “Let go.”

“No.” His other hand slides the empty glass away from me, dark eyes never leaving mine.

The kitchen is suddenly too small, too warm. His body radiates heat like a furnace, and the spicy notes of his cologne fill my lungs with each shallow breath. My pulse thunders in my ears as we stand locked in this silent battle of wills.

I should step away. Should put some distance between us. But pride and something darker—something that feels dangerously like desire—keeps me rooted to the spot. His eyes are nearly black in the dim light, full of an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.