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I see Pete. Slumped over. His fingers around his feet.

I see every possible version of how this ends. Then and now.

I pull the trigger.

The shot cracks through the shooting range. Louder this time. Harsher. Final. The recoil snaps through me. Grounding. Real. Just like back then. When I was seventeen, I stood on the edge of becoming someone I wouldn't recognize… I'm standing there again. I lower the gun slowly and understand something I didn't before. This world doesn't make you powerful. It just shows you how powerless you are… and waits to see what you'll do about it.

The weight of the gun still sits in my hands. In my chest. In my bones. When I turn, Gabe is exactly where I left him. Watching. Not surprised. Not impressed. Not even curious anymore. Like something just… clicked into place. His gaze drags over me—not my body, not the gun—me.Like he's stripping away whatever was left of the woman I used to be and measuring what's underneath. What's left. What I'm becoming. He doesn't look conflicted. He doesn't look concerned. He looks… satisfied.

A slow awareness settles in my chest. Cold. Steady. Dangerous. He knew. Not about Razor. Not about the desert. But aboutthis.About what I would become if I stayed. If I didn't break. If I leaned into it instead. My fingers tighten slightly around the grip. Not enough to raise the gun. Just enough to remind myself it's still there. That I'm still choosing this.

His eyes flick to the weapon. Then back to mine. A silent acknowledgment. Not approval. Not permission. Something worse. Recognition. Like he's saying,Now you see it too.

The space between us feels different now. Not charged. Not fragile. Settled. A line has been crossed without either of us moving. I exhale slowly.

"Still think I'm a liability?" I ask.

My voice is steady. Too steady. His mouth curves into something darker than a smile.

"Not anymore." He nods and adds in a quieter, rougher voice, "Now I think you're dangerous."

Something in me should resist that. Push back. Tell me to deny it. Instead, I let it settle. It's an inevitable truth, and I accept it. I nod once. Slow. Accepting it. Acceptinghim seeing it.

Stacy isin bed by the time dinner arrives. Earlier, she pressed her fingers to her temple and said she feltfunny in the head, like the words themselves confused her. I did my due diligence—do you have a headache? No. Are you dizzy? No. Tired? Yes.

I asked just in case there was something seriously wrong with her. After all, she just came out of the hospital a little over a week ago. And the last thing I need is Audra having to worry again. I've seen a lot of things. Shock. Grief. Withdrawal.

This with Stacy?

This is something else.

I'm starting to think the woman's not entirely right in the head. Not dangerous. Probably manipulative as hell. And… off. Which makes her unpredictable in a different way. I don't like variables I can't account for. I leave one of my men outside her door anyway. Precaution.

Always.

Kale dug into her medical records. Nothing raised any red flags, besides her constant ER and UR visits. The doctor from the hospital is still waiting on some test results, but so far, he hasn't found anything either. At least not physically.

Audra doesn't ask where we're eating. She just follows when I gesture toward the balcony. Quiet. Compliant, but not in a way I trust. There's a distance in her. Not fear. Not even grief in the way I'm used to seeing it. Something… off-center. Like she's not fully here. Which I guess is understandable. Given what she's been through, most people would be shattered. She isn't. She's holding it together just enough to function. But I can see the cracks. I watch for them. I always do.

People like her—people who don't break right away—they either fold later… or they become something else entirely. This afternoon has me fairly well convinced she's the second kind. I'm not sure yet whether that's a problem or exactly what I want.

She steps out onto the balcony ahead of me, and the city stretches out in front of her. Vegas lit up like a lie. She pauses at the railing. Not dramatic. Not fragile. Just… still. Like she's trying to place herself back into her own body.

My jaw flexes. I don't have patience for this part. The drifting. The quiet unraveling. Grief is inefficient. Messy. Slow. And I don't do slow. But for her, I do all kinds of things I didn't think myself capable of.

Because I wanther.

Not the broken version.

Not the one still standing in a warehouse with her husband bleeding out in front of her. The other one. The one from the range. The one who didn't hesitate. The one whofelt rightwith a gun in her hand. That's the version I'm interested in. The one worth waiting for. Even if I don't like how long it's going to take.

I move past her, pulling out a chair. "Sit," I invite.

She sends one of those green gazes my way that makes me want to level the world for her. To take out any obstacle that ever stood in her way. She takes the proffered seat, sinking down like the queen I know is hiding deep inside her.

Once I'm sure she's comfortable, I sit down across from her. Dinner is already laid out, and I pour a drink, more out of habit than need, and watch her over the rim as she picks up her fork. Still controlled. Still composed. But now I know better than to mistake that for harmless. A few hours ago, she proved exactly what she is. Now I just need to figure out how far it goes. And whether I'm the one who gets to take her there.

We eat in silence for a minute. I let it stretch. Most people talk when silence gets uncomfortable. Audra doesn't. She eats like she's done this a hundred times. Like she belongs here. Interesting. I set my glass down. "Did you always want to be a vet assistant?"