Jocelyn’s POV
Day three in the safe house and I'm losing my mind.
Not from the isolation—though the endless trees and armed guards definitely contribute. Not even from the constant terror that Dante might find us despite bulletproof windows.
It's Zayden.
We're trapped in four bedrooms with two kids, three federal agents, and nowhere to escape the man I'm supposed to hate but can't quite manage anymore.
He's everywhere: making coffee while I'm avoiding him, reading to Mia because she has nightmares, sitting with Eli through panic attacks, holding him through grief that comes in waves.
Being a father, finally. Eight years too late but trying so hard it breaks something in my chest every time I watch.
This morning I found them playing chess—Zayden teaching Eli strategy in that patient voice he's developed. Like this moment matters. Like everything he missed can be recovered through presence.
Eli was actually smiling, and I stood there feeling my anger crumble like sand castles against tide.
I catch myself staring again.
Zayden's got both kids now—Mia abandoned her coloring to watch the chess game, chin propped on the table, fascinated by Eli's concentration. Zayden's shoulder is still bandaged, and he keeps refusing painkillers because they make him foggy.
So he sits there in low-grade pain, teaching his son to think three moves ahead, and the patience in his voice—the tenderness—makes something in my chest crack along fault lines I didn't know existed.
I don't know what I feel, that's the terrifying part.
Anger is simple. Anger keeps its shape, stays where you put it. But this—watching him lean across the board to show Eli a knight's move, watching Eli actually smile for the first time since Natasha died…
This dissolves the anger into something I can't name and don't want to examine.
He took a bullet. Threw himself between me and Dante's gun without hesitation, without calculation. The man who turned fatherhood into wire transfers chose my body over his own in the space of a heartbeat.
That's trauma bonding, I tell myself. That's adrenaline and proximity and the dangerous illusion that almost dying together means something permanent.
But when Eli laughs at something Zayden says—really laughs, with his whole face—and Zayden's expression goes soft with a wonder he's never shown anyone, I think: maybe it's not an illusion.
This version of Zayden—father, protector, man who bleeds instead of burying people with money—is dangerous in ways his lies never were.
Because I could fall in love with this man.
***
Midnight finds me sleepless in the kitchen.
Moonlight through bulletproof glass reminds me we're prisoners as much as protected. I'm pouring tea when footsteps make me turn.
Zayden leans in the doorframe wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt showing his bandage, hair mussed from failed sleep. Exhausted, rumpled, more human than I've seen in months.
"Can't sleep either?"
"Insomnia's a feature of witness protection." I keep my tone light. "Tea?"
"Sure."
He moves close—too close in the small space, body heat making my skin prickle with awareness I don't want to acknowledge.
Silence while the kettle boils, heavy with everything unsaid.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For taking the bullet."
"I'd do it again. Without thinking."
"That's the problem." I pour with unsteady hands. "You could've died and left both kids without a father they just found."
"Better than leaving them without a mother they've always had."
The words land different in darkness, more honest than daylight allows.
I turn, back against the counter. He's close—close enough I can see exhaustion carved into his features, stubble darkening his jaw, eyes tracking over my face like he's memorizing details.
"I can't keep doing this," I whisper.
"Doing what?"
"Being angry while also… You took a bullet, threw away freedom to wear that wire. You're raising a son you barely know better than most men with eight years practice."
"But?"
"But I don't know how to forgive the lies. The six children. Making me fall in love with someone who didn't exist."
His breath catches. "Past tense?"
"What?"
"You said 'fall in love.' Past tense."
Too sharp, too accurate. "Does it matter?"
"It's the only thing that matters." He steps closer, inches apart now. "Tell me the truth, Jocelyn. Do you still love me?"
My heart hammers. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do." His hand comes up—careful, giving me time to pull away. Fingers brush my jaw. "You know exactly what you feel, you're just scared to say it."
"Of course I'm scared! Loving you cost me everything!"
"I know."
"You destroyed me!"
"I know." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "And I'll spend the rest of my life rebuilding what I broke. If you let me."
Tears burn. "What if I can't?"
"Then I'll keep trying anyway." He leans closer, forehead almost touching mine. "Because you're right—I don't give up on things that matter. And you matter more than anything."
"Zayden…"
"I love you." Raw, desperate. "Not past tense, not conditional. I love you in ways that terrify me because they're real and messy. You make me want to be someone worth loving back."
Tears spill. "I hate you for making this so hard."
"I know." His lips brush my temple. "Hate me all you want. Just don't stop being here."
Something breaks.
I kiss him, close the final inches and press my mouth to his like reclaiming stolen territory.
He freezes—surprise and hope colliding. Then responds with desperation that says he's been holding back just as hard.
Zayden’s good arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush. I feel every inch—lean muscle, bandaged shoulder, accelerated heartbeat matching mine. His mouth is hot, demanding, taking everything and asking for more.
I thread fingers into his hair, angle deeper, surrender until it stops being forgiveness and becomes pure want.
He tastes like tea and need and seven years of tension finally released. His hand slides down my spine, presses my back, holds me like I might disappear.
I bite his lower lip—not gently. He groans, vibrating through both chests, and suddenly we're consuming each other.
His mouth trails down my jaw, finds the spot below my ear that makes my knees weak. I arch into him, feeling the hard length pressed against my stomach.
"Jocelyn," he breathes. "God, I've missed you."
"Shut up. Less talking."
He complies, backing me against the counter with controlled force. His hand finds my hip, slides beneath my shirt, palm burning against bare skin.
I should stop this. Kids upstairs, federal agents outside. His thumb traces beneath my breast and rational thought evaporates. I'm pulling at his shirt when light floods the kitchen.
We break apart, breathing hard, flushed and disheveled.
Marshal Rodriguez stands in the doorway, expression neutral.
"Sorry to interrupt, but we have a situation."
Zayden's arm is still around my waist. I'm pressed against the counter, lips swollen.
"What situation?" Zayden's voice is rough.
Rodriguez sets a tablet down. Security footage loads—grainy, nighttime.
Helena's building. Fire escape, dark figures moving with professional efficiency.
My blood turns to ice.
"Caruso sent a team to your friend's apartment." Rodriguez's expression is grim. "She wasn't there—we moved her yesterday. But the message is clear."
"What message?"
"He's targeting everyone you've ever known." More footage. Rebecca Morrison's house. Sofia's gallery. Keiko's office. "Every woman on that list, every person connected to Mr. Wolfe's past. Dante's systematically eliminating anyone who might testify."
Air leaves my lungs. "Are they safe?"
"We're moving them now. Protective custody, secure locations." He closes the tablet. "But you need to understand—Dante isn't just coming for you. He's coming for everyone. Until we find him, nobody connected to this case is safe."
Zayden's arm tightens. "How long until trial?"
"Prosecutor's pushing sixty days. Defense requesting continuances." Rodriguez's expression is apologetic. "Could be three months, could be six."
"Six months in hiding," I whisper.
"Six months alive," Rodriguez corrects. "When we find him, he's going away forever. But until then…"
"We're targets." Zayden finishes.
Rodriguez nods. "All of you, including the children."
He leaves us standing there, bodies pressed together, kiss interrupted by reality.
I look up at Zayden. His eyes are dark, haunted, still holding heat mixed with fresh fear.
"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "About loving you, about not giving up."
"I know." I rest my forehead against his chest. "I think I might love you too. Despite every intelligent reason not to."
His arms wrap around me carefully, holding me like I'm precious instead of complicated.
Outside, armed guards patrol in darkness.
And somewhere, Dante Caruso is hunting everyone we love.