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“Reese? Bitch, how the fuck do you have this number?”

“Luna? Luna! Thank God! I’ve been worried sick.” Then she pauses. “Wait a sec, why do you have this phone?” This time, she uses her real voice.

“Cade’s phone? Long story. Your turn, and don’t you dare lie.”

She sucks in a breath. “Do you know Cade Quinn?”

“Do I know Cade Quinn?” I mimic. “What the hell are you talking about, Reese? I told you about him in the email I sent. Which I regret sending, by the way. It was a moment of weakness, and I would like to go back to hating your backstabbing ass.”

Silence. And then she begins to laugh.

“Whenever you’re done cackling, you can clue me in,” I snap.

“I’m sorry, but this is priceless. Cade is the person I was talking about! The guy I know who tracks people down. And I was calling him today because I didn’t hear from you.”

Oh shit. I lean against the rough wood of the porch railing. I forgot all about Reese and my stupid backup plan. I check the clock on the phone—just after eleven.

“What time is it over there?”

“Eight in the morning,” Reese huffs. “You didn’t check in last night. Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“I forgot,” I admit, running a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You forgot?” she spits. “Jesus, Luna, I thought you were dead! Whereareyou, and . . . and what’s that noise in the background?”

“Uh . . .” I stare out into the darkness, almost laughing at how insane this will sound. “I’m in a biker clubhouse.”

The silence stretches so long, I pull the phone away from my ear to check if the call dropped.

“You’re where?”

“A biker clubhouse,” I repeat.

“What the hell are you doing in a biker clubhouse?” Her voice pitches somewhere between disbelief and horror.

I take a slow breath, trying to keep my tone calm. “Cade brought me here.”

“Why?” she demands.

And this is where I don’t say any more. She might know Cade Quinn as a rescuer or assassin. But she doesn’t know this is his home.

“Not sure. Anyway. How is . . . Uncle Jacques?” I ask to deflect. Reese can be tenacious when she scents blood . . . or a good story.

Long silence. “I’m sorry. It was a shitty-as-hell thing to do. I should have told you the moment you came to Paris. I broke it up with him instead. And then his sister—your mom—got sick, and Jacques was so lost, and I felt like a heel for keeping him away when he needed me—”

“It’s fine,” I cut in, not quite ready for the gory details. She makes him sound like a needy pet. To be fair, she makes all her men that way, it’s just too nauseating imagining my aristocratic uncle as one of her lovers.

I hear a rough exhale on the line. “So, Luna. You’re hanging out with Cade. Do you even know him? Granted, he’s sexy . . . but also more than a little deranged.”

“Agreed he’s a lot of things, Reese.”

“You said you were in trouble?” Her voice gains that edge of softness that always makes me want to tell her anything.

I debate putting the phone down, but really. I’m going to need friends, and I have none right now. If this thing with Cade goes sideways . . .

“I am,” I admit quietly, switching to French. The words feel safer—like a confession whispered behind a screen. “Although the bigger one is that . . . I’ve fallen in love with him.”

Dead silence. My stomach twists as I wait.