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"It would," I agreed, holding his stare. "Complications compromise operations. That's why we maintain professional boundaries."

We looked at each other for a long moment, a lifetime of brotherhood and shared violence creating a language beyond words. Duke could push this, demand answers, make it an order. I could confess, throw myself on his mercy, hope our friendship outweighed his presidential responsibilities.

Neither of us blinked.

Finally, Duke nodded, a sharp jerk of his head that could mean anything. "After the wedding, we talk. Really talk. For now, keep your head on straight. Both heads."

The crude warning was so typically Duke—brotherhood wrapped in vulgarity. I started to respond, but he was already moving toward the door.

"Duke—"

He paused at the threshold, not turning around. "And Tyson? Tell Lena purple's definitely her color."

The door closed behind him with a decisive click, leaving me alone with the weight of everything unsaid. He knew. Of course he knew.

I sank into my chair, running through implications. Duke was giving me rope—enough to hang myself or prove I could handle this. The upcoming party would be a test, not just of security protocols but of my ability to maintain professional distance while protecting the woman I loved.

The woman whose purple dress had nearly caused me to commit public violence in a bridal boutique.

My phone buzzed. Lena: *Miss you already. Can't wait to ignore you super professionally on Friday. ??*

Despite everything, I smiled. Then typed back: *Practice your poker face, little brat. We're under surveillance.*

*Kinky. Should I wear a wire?*

*You should wear whatever keeps you safe and doesn't give me a heart attack.*

*So . . . youdowant me in underwear?*

*You're going to be the death of me.*

*But what a way to go, Soldier Boy.*

I pocketed my phone, gathered my things, and headed out into the night. Tomorrow would bring a boat full of drunk bikers, cartel threats, a president who saw too much, and a girlfriend who delighted in testing my control.

What could possibly go wrong?

IfoundLenacross-leggedonher living room floor that evening, surrounded by empty juice boxes like she'd robbed a kindergarten. She had three more lined up on the coffee table, studying them with the intensity usually reserved for difficult tattoo designs.

"Should I be concerned?" I asked, closing the door behind me.

She looked up, purple hair falling into her eyes. "I'm conducting a scientific experiment."

"With apple juice?"

"Each box represents one drink." She gestured at her setup with absolute seriousness. "I'm determining my limit for maintaining appropriate behavior on Friday."

I set down the Chinese takeout I'd brought and crouched beside her, taking in the scene. She'd actually made notes—a little chart tracking juice box consumption against decision-making quality. My chest went tight with a mixture of affection and concern.

"You're literally practicing being good?"

"If I get drunk at the party and accidentally call you Daddy in front of everyone . . ." She bit her lip, the gesture achinglyfamiliar. "Or worse, if I forget to maintain distance and just climb you like a tree because you look unfairly hot in your cut . . ."

"Lena." I pulled her against me, abandoning her juice box science. "We'll manage."

"Will we?" She twisted to look up at me. "Because I've been thinking about it all day, and I'm not sure I can pretend you're just some random biker. Not when I know what your hands feel like, what sounds you make when—"

I kissed her to stop that dangerous train of thought, tasting apple juice and anxiety on her lips. When we broke apart, she was flushed but still worried.