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“Where’s Cade?” I ask, looking around.

“Hmm.” Scar’s lips quirk. “He’s taking a minute.”

“For what?”

Scar hands me a fruity cocktail. His touch lingers on mine, and I absently note how rough the pads of his fingers are.

“He needs morphine and about twelve hours of sleep. But don’t worry,” his smile widens, “he’ll do none of those things. My guess is he’ll be down in about twenty minutes.”

“Now,” he says, taking my elbow and guiding me to the couch, his charm wrapping around me like silk. Tell me exactly what happened that night at Enigma.”

The more Scar peppers me with friendly questions, the less I want to tell him. As one easy lie rolls into another, I see his eyes get colder and his smile wider, and I know I was right. He’s more than the face he wears.

And he knows I’m lying to him.

Cade and Scar are both forces of nature, but that’s where the similarity ends. Where Scar is a deceptively gentle rain, Cade is a true, untamed thunderstorm.

Suddenly, I think I know why Cade is keeping his distance. If this is some stupid test like he did with Saint . . . I swear I’ll kill him—after I make it abundantly clear that I’m not looking for measly raindrops. I want the fucking storm.

35

Cade

The rooftop garden is quiet, but my head won’t shut up. A breeze moves through the potted greenery, cool against the heat crawling under my skin, but it doesn’t help.

Nothing does.

Peeling back the blood-soaked bandage, I suck in a sharp breath as the adhesive clings to raw, swollen skin. This change could wait for the doctor, but I need an excuse to keep my distance right now.

Before I do something I’m too depraved to regret. Like branding Luna as mine right in front of Scar. Repeatedly.

When the fuck did I become that territorial?

“Cade? Did you hear me?”

Kat’s impatient voice cuts through. I glance at the phone propped against the antiseptic bottle on the wrought iron table. Her sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes fill the screen, framedby blonde hair she’s tucked behind her ear. Beautiful, brilliant Kat. Hopelessly in love with a man who doesn’t exist.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I grab the antiseptic-soaked gauze and brace for the sting.

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “I asked when you’ll be ready to move. Scar’s refusing to take me with him unless you’re coming too.” Her lips twist into something resembling a pout. “It’s like he’s afraid I’ll break him or something. Anyway, can you make Moscow happen sooner? He’s missing me.”

I bite back a groan that has nothing to do with the antiseptic now burning through my wound. “Kat, we’ve been over this a dozen times.”

“Yes, but you know how Scar gets. He’s all discipline until he snaps. He wants me, he just needs to get to that tipping point, and then—”

“If he wants you,” I cut in, harshly, “he knows where to find you.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m sick of waiting. The quickest way to get him to want something is . . .” Her voice trails off.

If I want it too.

The unspoken words hang between us.

That has never been a problem before. Scar is my shadow. It’s expected that his taste mirrors mine.

“Of all the men in the world,” I mutter, adjusting the bandage, “you choose a fucking Rubik’s cube, Kat.”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “I certainly have the brain for it.”