When he pulls away, our eyes meet, and he reaches out, his thumb abrasive as he wipes away my tears. “I love you, Cassidy.”

I gulp, nodding, and blurt out, “I love you, Lincoln.”

It’s the ass crack of dawn when my doorbell rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Oh God, here we go again.

Last night started in hell and ended in heaven. After Lincoln and I finally broke down and explored our emotions before throwing them out to the other, the night relaxed. When he asked to see my neck, to see how it was healing, there was no hesitation this time. He stared at it, anguish in his eyes as if he wished he could heal it with them.

We lay in bed that night, his finger running along the bare skin of my thigh, and talked for hours—about anything and everything.

Lincoln slips on a pair of sweats, throws on a hoodie, and says, “I got it,” before leaving the bedroom.

“Oh, man, do I have some fucking news for you,” I hear Rex say from the other room.

I hurriedly dress and join them in the living room, where Rex is standing with a stack of papers tucked underneath his armpit. Grace is on the couch, staring at him in curiosity, while we all await his early morning pop-in information.

“Quinton, your little ex,” Rex starts, his gaze darting to me. “The guy has quite the drug setup going on. Not only is it him and a few friends, but there are dirty cops on his team as well.” He snatches the stapled papers from his arm and throws them down onto the coffee table. “You gotta read this shit.”

So much dawns on me.

Quinton being comfortable with one officer and then uneasy when the other showed up.

Him doing the bro hug with the officer.

He’d been working with the first one who approached my car.

“We need to do something about this,” Rex says.

“I know a way.” Lincoln grabs the stack of papers. “I’ll be back.”

He smacks a kiss to my cheek and leaves without providing any additional information.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lincoln

This time, I don’t bother going to his office.

I go straight to the source and pray he doesn’t call the cops on me.

Isla answers the door, wearing a pink silk robe. “Lincoln?”

“Where’s Louis?” I rush out. “I need to speak to him.”

“What?” she stutters, a string of disappointment crossing her features that I’m not there for her.

“I need to speak to your husband.”

She stares at me, speechless.

It’s a plus for me that their doorway is massive enough to fit a semi, and I duck around her before rushing inside their home, marble flooring underneath my squeaky sneakers. Louis is sitting in the kitchen, a full breakfast plate in front of him and the paper in his hands, all old-school style.