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Of all the dangers I’ve faced, this is the most deadly.

34

Luna

I’m plastered against the tinted windows of Cade’s brand new pickup, iced tea dripping onto my jeans unnoticed as I watch Cade talk to the manager.

This is my first real glimpse of him interacting with—well, anyone in broad daylight, and it’s something. He towers over the man in front of the garage, not just in height but in sheer presence. Cade looks civil, even friendly, yet the man nods like a puppet, terror written all over his face.

Then it hits me. Strip away the tactical gear and molded T-shirts, put him in Armani, and Cade would outclass every made man in Papa’s study. Scrap that, he’d fucking intimidate them.

He has that regal bearing, that air of absolute authority—in spades.

Right now, though, I see what others might miss: the way he’s favoring his right side, that slight hitch in his posture when he gestures toward our shot-up truck, and the drawn look around his eyes. Pain. From the bullets he took for me.

He pats the man on his shoulder and makes his way back, each measured step betraying his wounds.

My stomach knots as he slides into the driver’s seat, jaw tight with discomfort. “Cade, you need a doctor.”

“What I need is to get you somewhere safe.” He adjusts the rear mirror as he backs out of the lot. “I’m in no shape to handle another fight.”

That shuts me up. Through my side mirror, I stare at the old pickup sitting at the back of the dealer’s lot, its shattered windows, perforated body, and that bloody handprint, a reminder of what he did for me.

What I almost did to him.

“The dealer will turn it into scrap in a few minutes,” Cade murmurs, misreading my stare for fear of discovery.

“Really? Like he handled producing an identical pickup within minutes without asking questions about the blood and bullet holes?”

Cade’s mouth twitches. “He’s handled worse for me.”

I nod as if that makes perfect sense and study our new ride. It’s a Ford F-150 Limited in obsidian black color. “You must really love this model, though.”

He gives an amused grunt.

“What, don’t you drive anything else?”

“It’s practical. And perfect for Saint.”

“Practical,” I snort, looking around. Black leather seats, spacious cabin. Everything is exactly like the last one, down to the pet shelter and unusually large center console. “Try identical.”

When my eyes catch on the back seat, muscle memory takes over. I reach under and find what I expect: an identical military-grade first aid kit.

Gofigure.

“Cade?” I chew my lip. “Where are your weapons? I didn’t see you transfer anything.”

He reaches between us, fingers finding an invisible button in the center console. The panel slides away, revealing an arsenal that steals my breath—handguns, rifles, knives, each piece arranged with precision.

Understanding dawns on me. “You have a fleet of these, don’t you? They’re not just trucks, they’re . . .”

“Mobile arsenals,” he confirms. “Stationed where I need them.”

I settle back in my seat, letting that sink in. The scale of his operations, his resources, the planning—it’s dizzying. Every time I think I understand the scope of who Cade Quinn is, the picture gets bigger and more complex.

He makes a sharp turn and grimaces, and instantly, my eyes are drawn to his side again. I’ve been trying not to stare, but I can’t help noticing how the bandage is starting to stain his fresh T-shirt. The combat gauze isn’t staunching the wound anymore.

“Your wound—” My fingers twist in my lap. “I didn’t put enough pressure, did I?”