DENVER.
You ever walk into a house knowing the air inside might suffocate you?
That was me, standing at Zee’s front door, leather jacket sticking to my back, three of my guys flanking me like I was going to war instead of dinner.
Except I kind of was.
I’d dealt with drug lords, crooked cops, and a cartel boss who thought knives made better arguments than words—but walking into Zee’s home to meet her father? That had my gut twisted up in ways nothing else had.
I glanced at her door, then at the guys. Trigger was holding a bottle of wine like it was a peace treaty. Blaze had the pastries Ghost picked out. We looked like the most dangerous catering crew in town.
And then the door opened.
There she was.
Zee.
Hair half done like she’d changed her mind mid-style. Eyes sharp and soft at
