Where is Tony? His bodyguard should’ve broken this up. I look to Banks. “Tell the temp guards to break up the fight.” I see three just watching.

Banks switches radio frequencies and speaks to them in comms.

Maximoff starts to run up the slick, muddy hill, and Farrow drops his trauma bag. Catching up to his fiancé’s side. It’s not an easy climb. They slide.

When the white ranger slams a left hook into Xander’s jaw, Maximoff digs in harder and yells, “XANDER!”

Banks goes to help.

My muscles flex, and Jane can feel my shoulders contracting as she holds on to them.

I’m not planning to join. Neither is Charlie or Oscar. Our clients are here. We stay here. We stand near, but far enough from the foot of the hill that our view of Xander isn’t obstructed.

“Put me down,” Jane says instantly, hurriedly. “Go, go —I’ll stay with Charlie.”

“No. I’m not leaving your side.” My voice is concrete. In my head, there is no other option. And even if there were, this is what I want. Her detail.

Her.

I trust my brother. I trust Farrow and even Maximoff to get the job done.

Suddenly, part of the audience breaks off, mostly drunk frat-bro-looking shitbags dressed as Vikings, and they slide down the hill. Grinning, aiming for Farrow and Maximoff, the Winter Soldier and Captain America.

Being a bodyguard for so long, I sense what’s about to happen. The Vikings want to push our men down. Just to prolong the entertainment at the top of the hill.

Oscar and I exchange a severe look. They’re not making it to Xander. And the temps aren’t moving a muscle, which means the extra guards are listening to another order.

Tony, I’m guessing.

I’m about to tell Oscar to go and I’ll watch Charlie. But he beats me to speak. “You go, Moretti. You’re taller.” Oscar is over six feet, but I assume he thinks my longer limbs will help me climb up the fucking hill faster.

Probably because Banks was high up, almost to the top. But he changes course to protect Maximoff and Farrow.

Jane looks panicked at the scene. “Go, go .” She taps my shoulder.

“Listen to my sister,” Charlie says, shooting me a harsher look.

I glance at Oscar, and he nods to me, “I have her.” I trust him. Instantly. I move into action. Carefully setting Jane onto her feet, and she hangs on to Charlie’s arm.

Fear strikes her eyes. She pushes me towards the hill. “Thatcher.” Her empathy for her best friend takes over.

A Viking charges Maximoff, about to shove him, and Farrow intervenes fast. He cold-cocks the Viking hard. Lights out instantly, and the rest erupt on both of them.

I run.

Maximoff is brawling his way through these shitbags, and Farrow is swifter, more trained. Nailing one with an uppercut to the jaw. Banks keeps about three from storming in on them, putting a guy in a headlock, and I ascend another part of the hill.

Clear of Viking targets.

I’m not able to check back on Jane. I place all my trust in Oscar. Sounds of cheering escalate the higher I climb, my boots muddying.

I’ve been in harsher terrain. Under harsher conditions. But I wouldn’t call this a cakewalk by any fucking means.

My pulse pounds in my temple. The DJ plays “I Put a Spell On You” on full blast, the bass shaking the ground.

I dig my foot into mud, and with one last shove up, I reach the graveyard. Seeing over every head, I have an eye on Xander.

He almost trips backwards into a fake headstone, dodging a jab to the nose. Blood already gushes down his mouth and chin.

I don’t waste a second. “Break up!” I yell, storming toward the fistfight in the center of the graveyard. No one tries to restrain me here. They see my imposing height and build, domineering stance, and lethal glare—and they part instantly.

Making a clear path for me to go through. But they boo. Pissed that I’m about to end their party.

My boots crunch red Solo cups while I charge ahead. Unblinking, reflexes humming. Not far.

And then the white ranger lands a hard blow into Xander’s face. Blood gushes out of his nose.

And he crumples on a headstone in a heap. I’m here. One second too late, but I wrench the white ranger back by the collar.

Someone yells, “Holy shit! Baywatch-Thor is coming out of nowhere!”

The white ranger flails at me. “Heymangetoffme.”

I throw him to the side with extreme force. His chest thuds on a mound of dirt. Quickly, I crouch to Xander, who groans and cups his nose.

Lanky at six-foot-two, he’s pretty scrawny for fifteen—and without pause, I lift him in my arms.

He tucks his head into my chest with some type of familiarity, seeking safety in my clutch. As though he knows exactly who I am without checking.

I’m almost whiplashed with how many years I’ve spent protecting him, and as I carry Xander down the hill, I feel like he’s nine-years-old again.

He’s safe.

Probably broke his nose, but he’s safe. Hell, he’ll be joining the broken nose club. Many bodyguards are in it, and so is Maximoff.

I swat a plastic cup that someone tries to throw at me. Booing intensified. I don’t give a rat’s ass.

Finding some foot traction, I reach the bottom of the hill without slipping. And right as I lock eyes with Jane—Tony motherfucking Ramella cuts into my path.

I glower. Wanting to choke him with his lifeguard whistle.

He looks just as murderous. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Moretti?”

“I’m holding your bloodied client and you’re asking me that? You shouldn’t have even let Xander swing—”

“He wanted to fight,” Tony sneers, his blue eyes pulsating with rage that I feel. “It was a boxing match.”

“Where’s the fucking ring ?” I growl.

Tony points at me. “See, that’s your goddamn problem. You can’t hover over your client. You gotta let him live his life.”

“He’s fifteen!”

“He’s a fuckin’ teenager! You did worse at his age—”

“Vaffangul’,” I growl. Fuck you.

He spits the same Italian curse at me.

If Xander weren’t in my clutch right now, hiding in the crook of my arm, I wouldn’t be able to control my hot-blooded urge to deck Tony in the fucking face.

It’s the only reason I walk away from him now.

He shouts at my back, “You’re gonna regret this, Moretti!”

We’ll see.

45

JANE COBALT

Everything changes today. The first day of November.

I’m home. I lean back against the brick wall, right beside the adjoining door that leads to security’s townhouse. It’s so strange to think that just on the other side, Thatcher is meeting with the three leads to discover exactly how we have to announce our breakup for tonight.

Press release.

Instagram post.

Rocket flare.

I can’t imagine a suitable way to do it because there’s no part of me that wants to wake up tomorrow and be someone less to Thatcher than what I’ve been. To rewind and be nothing more than his client again…

Ophelia nudges my hand for pets, and I stroke her white fur.

“Janie,” Maximoff whispers, his voice tough but incredibly consoling. He has an arm around my shoulders, and I lean my weight into my best friend.

His black eye isn’t so swollen anymore, but a yellowish bruise blemishes his cheek, the aftermath of the fight on the hill. Farrow only has a split lip, and Banks strained a muscle in his shoulder. I’m just thankful no one was more severely injured. Including Xander, who’s recuperating from a minor nose fracture.

I glance over at the kitchen archway. Seeing a portion of Donnelly’s outstretched legs. He’s sitting on the floor against the cupboards.

Farrow is next to him, the same way that Moffy is beside me. I walked past this morning and saw Do

nnelly pinching his watery eyes.

He was called here earlier to talk to the Tri-Force. They’re transferring him off Beckett’s detail. It wasn’t such a shock, really. Beckett learned about Donnelly’s deep-seated family history with drugs, and he didn’t want his bodyguard around cocaine. So he requested a transfer.

Everyone is trying to protect Donnelly, it seems. Oscar and Farrow were the ones to tell Beckett.

I take a breath in the quiet. Ophelia turns to Moffy, bumping her nose into his wrist. He scratches her, but looks at me. Deep empathy coursing through his green eyes.

He’s known longer than anyone that I’ve liked Thatcher. That I’ve been attracted to him. That I’ve slept with him, and he’s seen from the start where this could lead. And he’s been afraid for me. One-way roads. Not together. Different directions.

My lips are chapped and I lick the cuts forming on my bottom one. “I’ve been telling him that I don’t want him to quit security for me,” I whisper to Moffy. “And I don’t…but…at the same time, I do.” Tears well up in my eyes. “And I hate that part of me. That’d wish him to sacrifice anything to be with me.”

I rub at my eyes.

Moffy hugs me closer. “Sacrifice is a part of being in a relationship with people like us,” he says softly.

Sacrifice.

I hear Beckett’s voice.

Ophelia darts off at the sound of birds chirping outside. I rest my cheek to his shoulder. Tears spilling down my face.

Moffy looks pained, but he hugs tighter.

I rub snot on the sleeve of my blouse. “I’m just thinking about how he’s going to come back through those doors and everything will be different. I won’t even be able to touch his hand…” I take a sharp breath. “Or run my fingers through his hair.” My sleeve is sufficiently wet. “He has really good hair.”

I try to smile.

Moffy tries too. “I know. He’s got great hair.”

We both laugh. Me through my tears. Him through his reddened eyes.

In all of this, I’m glad I have him. And just as deeply, I’m so very glad Thatcher has Banks. We both won’t be alone. No matter what.

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