Page 68 of South of Justice

Lucía blinked at him, dazed. Her lips were parted, slightly swollen, her hair sticking to her temple. “Yeah,” she said, voice a little hoarse. “Just…don’t stop.”

He gave a half-smile. “Not planning to.”

He leaned back in, slower this time. More deliberate. Their mouths met again, and this time the kiss deepened. It wasn’t hurried now, but molten, layered with everything they hadn’t been able to say aloud. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt. His own hands traced down her spine and settled at her waist, careful not to aggravate her injury. Every part of him was straining to stay gentle, when every part of him wanted more.

Her breath hitched as his lips moved to her jawline, then lower, skimming the curve of her neck. Her pulse thudded against his mouth, fast and shallow. She tilted her head back, eyes fluttering shut.

Then—

The door creaked open.

Gates.

Ryan froze. Lucía stiffened in his arms.

“Well, hell,” Gates said, voice bone-dry. “If I’d known you two needed a moment, I’d’ve brought candles.”

Lucía ducked her head, drawing back, cheeks flushed and breathing ragged. Ryan stepped between her and the door almost automatically, tension locking into his spine.

Gates raised his hands, mock-surrender. “Relax. I’m not here to cockblock. Just figured you’d want to know, we’ve got a window.” His tone turned crisp. “Boat’s ready. Weapons staged. We move before midnight. You’ve got an hour to gear up.”

He lingered a beat longer than necessary, gaze flicking between them. There was no grin on his face. Just a flicker of something Ryan couldn’t quite place. Amusement, maybe. Or warning.

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him. The air he left behind felt colder.

Ryan turned back to Lucía, who was still flushed but composed. Her lips were parted, her breathing just beginning to steady. She sat back on the bed, brushing her fingers over her mouth like she was trying to ground herself.

“That man,” she muttered, brushing a hand through her hair, “has the worst timing on the planet.”

Ryan gave a soft, reluctant laugh. “Yeah. Always did.”

He sat beside her. Neither of them reached for the other again, but they didn’t pull apart, either. A beat passed. Then another.

“We’re really doing this?” she said.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. We are.”

FORTY-ONE

Lucía saton the edge of a cracked porcelain tub, her shirt off, bandages peeled back. The wound looked clean. No swelling. But that wasn’t the part that hurt most.

The mirror above the sink was warped. Her reflection stared back with tired, guarded eyes. Her skin was still pale, blood loss and tension working in concert.

Men like Gates didn’t just show up out of the blue with tactical medkits and furnished safehouses. Ryan desperately wanted to believe that someone from his old life still gave a damn about saving him. But this didn’t feel like rescue. It felt like bait.

She stood slowly and opened the narrow window above the tub. Outside, the coastal air blew cool against her skin. The SUV sat still, engine ticking faintly. But the driver’s seat was empty.

Where the hell was Gates?

Something creaked. Not the wind. The floorboards. Purposeful.

Lucía stood instantly, grabbing her gun from the top of the toilet tank. Another creak. Closer now. Footsteps.

A gentle knock.

“You okay?” Ryan’s voice, muffled through the door.