Charlie and Dominic are yelling at each other, a pointless volley of accusations and insults flying over my head. I’m still naked—which is surprisingly easy when you’re in excruciating pain—and lying face down on the couch in the loft. Nate’s beside me, stroking my hair and distracting me from the fire that’s taken residence on the back half of my body.

“I’ve never been so disrespected!”

“Well, you’ve never been this stupid before!”

“I almost lost it, Charlie! I could have really hurt her, and it would have been your fault.”

“Bullshit. Not in a million years would you have hurt her.”

I almost laugh, but it’s not funny. I’m in pain, yes, but Charlie’s right—I’m not hurt. The blows were perfect. No broken skin, which is a miracle in and of itself. Just a world of discomfort on my ass, thighs, and shoulders.

Charlie continues, “Stop second-guessing your instincts. Stop trying to be someone you’re not!”

“Watch yourself, Rhodes.”

“You watch yourself, you arrogant shit. If Liam won’t give it to you straight, then it’s up to me. That woman lying there dropped out of the fucking sky and straight into your lap. She’s everything you want and need, but you threw her away!”

“Because she lied to me!” he roars.

I flinch at the raw feeling in his voice, glad for the cool washcloth over my eyes so I don’t have to see firsthand how angry he is. Nate’s hand stills, then resumes.

Charlie’s voice lowers, becomes almost gentle. “It’s not the same, Dominic. Can’t you see that? London isn’t using you, manipulating you—”

“Oh, really? What do you think tonight—”

“Just shut up and listen! We both know she would’ve never blindsided you like that if I hadn’t orchestrated it. Yes, London has some shit in her past that she doesn’t talk about. But so do you. So does Nathan. It took him two years to tell us what happened to him. And last time I checked, I still don’t know what made you leave the Navy!”

Do you want me to tell you about my last mission? How many people died on my watch? See the scar where I almost lost my leg and my life?

I twitch, feeling like the worst kind of voyeur. Give me pain any day of the week, but witnessing someone else’s? No way. Especially when the pain is wrapped up with almost-intimacy. Would he have told me? Given me a truth he hasn’t even shared with Charlie? I don’t want to know the answer—it scares the hell out of me, how much I want it to be yes.

The wall around my heart shivers. Inside me, the shadow-me looks up, waiting. Hoping for a ray of sunlight in the dark. Tears burn in my eyes. I’m so tired. So fucking tired of being alone. Of not trusting anyone. Of the nightmares, the duplicity. The daily pretenses I maintain.

“…do this again, Charlie. I really can’t. Ashley—”

“Is a dirty twat who almost landed you in a looney bin!”

“Enough!”

Charlie growls—literally growls. Her heels pound away from the couch toward the kitchen. Leather creaks as Nate leans down, his breath tickling my ear.

“Hey, you’re shaking. Are you laughing or crying right now?”

A muffled sob escapes with the lie, “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” says Dominic, voice reedy with exhaustion.

“She’s dropping hard,” murmurs Nate.

“Give her what she needs,” snaps Charlie from across the room.

I barely hear the words, the dissolution of my reality all-consuming. Dominic’s voice hums beneath my misery, then two sets of hands lift me gently to my feet. Like a flower seeking sunlight, I melt into the warmth and scent of my Dom. One arm braces me mid-back, the other arm sweeping me up from beneath the knees.

I whimper with relief, then in pain as he walks toward the bedroom.

“Hush. I’m here.”

“Dominic.” His name is thick and slurred. “I’ll tell you. Everything. Please, don’t go.”

His arms briefly tighten. “I won’t.”

As I slip deeper into the void-like space in my mind, I hope against hope that he means it.

I was ambitious. Too ambitious, according to some. Borderline reckless in my pursuit of a story. But with each new exposé, my reputation grew, and reputations required maintenance. More—they demanded better. Bigger. My editors had come to expect it. My readers wanted it. There were even whispers in some circles of a Pulitzer on my horizon, and I believed with near-fanaticism this would be the one to catapult me into the realm of journalistic greats.

The interviews with the young women weren’t enough on their own. Despite the atrocities they recounted for me, despite the revulsion I felt listening to them, my logical mind knew I needed more. More than the word of three drug-addicted Russian teens who talked about famous, rich men paying for them, about escaping from labor-camp conditions only to be forced into prostitution just to eat.

I needed a connection. A name. And now I had it, via a photograph of a highly recognizable man leading a barely-legal young woman into the back of a limousine. The same young women who, one week ago, showed up in the morgue with an execution-style gunshot wound in her forehead. The man was Jeffrey Donalds. Supreme Court Justice. Willing participant and benefactor of an international, illegal sex trafficking ring operated by the Russian mob in New York.

Bingo.

I immediately sent the photograph to a tech who could tell me if it had been doctored in any way, then printed it and sent an additional copy to my personal email. Electrified at the possibility of renown, I ignored the voice in the back of my head warning me about risks. Stepping on the toes of law enforcement. Jeopardizing undercover work, Federal investigations… But I shut that voice up with rationalizations.

I was exposing one man—a criminal who didn’t deserve to sit on a bench of public office. Sure, the mob would be indicated, but really, who’d be shocked? Not them, certainly. Though I would be pointing a finger in their direction, I had no hard evidence of their involvement. And they knew it.

My recent interview with Ivan Reznikov, the suspected head of the Russian mob, had been both terrifying and exhilarating. He’d been amused by me, laughing often as we shared drinks and ceviche. A robust bear of a man in his fifties, he made no fewer than ten passes at me over the course of our time together. So I used it. Flirted and smiled. And Reznikov enjoyed the game, though he was too slick to take any of my bait. A master of evasion, he offered only the barest hints of culpability, and nothing that could be used against him in a trial.

Jeffrey Donalds’s life would go down in flames, and my praises would be sung far and wide.