I found Pierce.

I see her through the window a one-story house, making something in the kitchen. My back is pressed to the California-style brick, and there is a gun in my hand. I hope the neighbours don't see.

It took work, but I traced her name back to a property here on the fringe of New Orleans, a small suburban area of cozy homes.

Is this where Jude has been staying for the past two weeks?

Evening is falling, and my shadow dances against the side of the house. Inside of the house, it doesn't like there is any murder or bloodshed or hostages.

It looks . . . surprisingly domestic.

Cozy, even. Pierce is grabbing her keys from a hanger and pulling on a jacket. I see her mouth open, but I don't hear what she says as she exits through the front door.

Where is Jude?

And then I see her.

As Pierce leaves, and a gust of winter air swirls into the foyer, Jude slips to the front of the house to lock the door.

I hear Pierce's car starting, and she pulls out of the driveway.

Now, Jude is alone in the house.

Once I am sure Pierce is gone, after five minutes, I shove my gun into my pocket and climb the stairs to the front of the house.

As ordinarily as if I am a door-to-door salesman, as normally as if I am a girl scout selling pistachio-chip cookies, I ring the doorbell.

My breath puffs out into the air. My hands shake in my pockets from the cold.

The door opens, and my thoughts dissolve.

Because Jude is standing there, and it is the first time I've seen her in two weeks, but it feels like it's the first I'm seeing her since the accident. I am immediately twelve again, seeing her in the hospital room, as her face pinches in confusion. I feel like I should know you. But she didn't then, and she doesn't now.

The winter air between us becomes hot with tension, thick with surprise and realization and shock.

"What are you doing here?" she breathes. "What—"

But before she can say more, I step forward and lock my hand over her throat, using my grip to gently push her back. She stumbles backwards into the house, and I close the door behind us.

Her back hits the wall. A picture frame rattles.

"What are you—?" she gasps, and then I kiss her.

Her mouth instinctively responds to mine, the way it always does. Her body softens against me, fitted perfectly to me, as though she was made for me. And she breathes into my mouth, whispering, "Hunter," as though she can't help it. I kiss her harder, my hand still locked around her throat, and her fingers drag down my back. I miss the scratches she gave me—the bruises that made me think of her.

I love this—I love that she can't resist me, even after everything. I love what my touch does to her. I love how she answers me, as though I am a question she is still trying to figure out.

Her lips against mine are hot and sweet, and my tongue slips against her. Claiming her as mine.

"Stop," she gasps, pulling herself back an inch.

"Why?" My voice is dark. Rough.

"You can't, not after you—"

"Tell me, Jude," I breathe, my voice as lush as sin. "Are you fucking her? Are you fucking Pierce? Is that why you're here?"

"No, I—"

"Have you been fucking her these past two weeks?" An edge of my true anger—and pain—cuts through my words. "Is that why you haven't come back?"

Her face turns flushed. Firecracker—there she is, my firecracker. "I left because you betrayed me!"

"You didn't stay to listen to me," I whisper darkly. "I would have told you."

The light in her eyes flares. "You told me to run!"

She is so beautiful, even now, flushed and furious. Her green-grey eyes are startling against her long lashes, and her rose-bud shaped mouth is swollen with my kiss. She has the palest constellation on her nose, and I want to kiss every freckle—every star.

"I didn't mean from me," I say.

The air between us sings, tense with heat and yearning.

"But the Saints," she says. "You betrayed the Wolves."

"And I can tell you why," I answer. "If you'll listen to me."

Her eyes flicker, and I see the war that tugs within her smoke-and-emerald eyes. The frustration that pulls down her mouth.

"Hunter, I don't . . ."

Today, my brown eye contacts are in. But she still stares deeply into me, like she is trying to find something—someone—she once knew.

"You know me, Jude," I say, and she does. She just doesn't know it.

You can't tell her until it's time. Promise me you won't tell her!

But Jude's mother is dead. And even though she said she would reveal everything when I turned twenty-two, I won't ever know her reasoning.

"Do you trust me?"

Her mouth parts. Her eyes turn glossy as my hand drifts between her legs. I love the way she comes undone for me—the way she shatters, right as I brush my knuckles over that sensitivity. Her breath shudders, and she leans, ever so slightly, forward.

I growl against her, and her name in my mouth is a hymn. A prayer. "Jude," I growl, and her lips twist in intoxicating want. "Let me tell you my story."

"I—I can't—"

But I silence her with another kiss, and she gives into me, meeting me with a touch that is just as eager, just as possessive. Desire warms my palms as I slide them over her skin, and with satisfaction, I know Pierce hasn't touched her. Not like this. She is hungry for me—for my touch.

"We are friends with benefits," I challenge, not letting her see the ache that accompanies these words. "Aren't we?"

"We can't," she says. "This is Pierce's—"

"You're mine, Jude," I say, and I feel it as her knees weaken, and my grip on her neck becomes the only thing holding her up. I push her until we have less than a breath between us, connected at every edge, and with one hand, I pin her hands to the wall above her head.

"Hunter," she says, her eyes bright with desire.

"Let me show you how much I missed you, Jude," I say, and she swallows audibly. She licks her lips, and it makes a shiver go through me. "Let me worship you. You're so beautiful, you know that?"

Before she can answer, my hand is between her thighs. Seeking that warmth. My hand cups her, my fingertips grazing her slit. Her head tips back, her breathing becoming labored.

"Mine," I say roughly, tasting the heat there. "You're so wet for me. Jesus."

"It's Jude, actually," she stutters, her breathing come too fast, too hard. When my fingers slide into her, I press my mouth to her neck. Blood rushes to greet the skin, and Jude smells like lemon and want, tempting and thrilling all at once.

"Jude," I correct, grinning wickedly. Then I tear the lace of her panties, and when she protests something about not having any more, I whisper, "Didn't I promise you we would go lingerie shopping?" Then I fill her with two fingers. Plunging deep inside her. Her hips buck against me, meeting me thrust for thrust, and I taste her pleasure as it rolls off her in waves.

When her climax comes, she cries out, collapsing against me, clutching the back of my jacket. "Hunter," she sighs into my mouth.

"I love it when you say my name like that."

Even panting, she is insatiable. "Again," she says.

"Where's your bedroom?"

Wordlessly, she points, and I grin with promise. Her hand curls into mine, lacing through my fingers, and she lets me lead her through the hallway, pushing the door open into what must be her room. A plump white bed and soft sheets, with lacy pillows.

"Hunter?" Jude says. Her mouth is raw, and it makes me want to kiss her again.

"Yes?"

"When we're done shopping for lingerie, we might have to go shopping for new pillows."

"Oh? Is that a prediction?"

"No," she says, as I push her until the backs of her knees hit the bed. "It's a fact."

Then her legs shift apart, giving me access to the apex of her soft thighs, and I kneel before her like she is the temple I am worshipping. Like she is the goddess I pray to.

And when she first starts to moan, there is nothing that can convince me she isn't the embodiment of divinity.

It turns out that, by the end of the night, we do need new pillows.

"You know, you can't always solve our problems with sex."

Both of my arms are wrapped around Jude, one tucked beneath the underside of her breast, the other flattened against her ribcage.

She shifts in my arms, yawning, and turns to face me.

For a moment, I lose myself in her eyes: smoke winding through a bright, sun-kissed forest. Grey and green, swirled together.

I woke up earlier to put on my contacts. To hide the mismatched blue of my own eyes.

It's not time. She can't know yet—

"You're so beautiful," I say. "Did I ever tell you that?"

I get the pleasure of watching a blush deepen her soft skin, clouding beneath her freckles. The constellation of them.

"Don't try and distract me," she says, scowling. "I said, you can't always solve our problems with sex."

"Who's trying to solve our problems with sex? Because all I heard last night was—"

A grin tugs at her mouth, but she maintains her glowering look.

"Hunter," she warns. "You still have a story to tell me about. And Pierce could come back at any moment."

Curiously, I ask, "Where is she, anyway?"

Jude stiffens, as though remembering we are supposed to be enemies. But I keep her wrapped tight in my embrace, unwilling to let go of her warmth yet.

"She's . . . out," Jude says vaguely, her eyes flashing.

I tuck a strand of coppery hair behind her ear. "Tell me the truth," I whisper.

"I don't know," she admits. "She tells me she leaves, and she tells me when she's coming back, but she doesn't say where she's going."

"She's dangerous."

Jude scoffs. "You would say that. You were jealous."

If I didn't know better, I would say there is the faintest glow of pride there. Like she is almost glad I was jealous. It doesn't make sense to me, so I only say, "You shouldn't trust her."

"Like I trusted you?" she shoots back.

This one is a raw wound, salt against blood.

"Let me tell you why," I suggest. "Let me tell you everything."

It has been three days since I picked up the two young girls. Since I confronted Anise, and swallowed the pain, the horror of it all.

Three days. But with Jude here, in my arms, the pain of the world fades.

Somehow, I know I would be content like this. To stare at the brush of her lashes against her cheekbones. To gaze at the pattern of stars against her soft skin, and caress the edge of her flexing jaw as she holds back a smile. To watch her blush, that beautiful pink staining her cheeks, until she finally lets out a laugh. And in that laugh, she is all I could ever need—the contents of the universe, the entirety of the world. If I could be here with her, forever, what else would I ever want?

Softly, Jude asks, "What are you thinking about?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

"Pierce will be back soon," she says. And in her words, I read what lies unspoken: Tell me everything.

"Let's go shopping."

"Shopping? Did that really just come out of your mouth?"

"Well, we do need new pillows," I say, glancing at the shreds of white silk. "And . . . lingerie." At this, my grin turns crooked.

She pushes me playfully. "I'm not going lingerie shopping with you."

An hour later, we are shopping for lingerie in a store called La Vie en Rose. The floors are black mirror, and there is dim, sultry light slanting over the scraps of velvet, satin, silk, lace.

"What happened to my Jude?" I tease in a low voice. "The badass who walked out into Saints territory, guns blazing, is afraid of a little bit of lace?"

She crosses her arms, leveling me a glare. Her eyes dart around. "When are you going to tell me everything?"

"Why not here?"

A blush burns beneath her skin, vital heat pouring off of her in the sensual light of the lingerie store.

I want to push her against the rack full of velvet and kiss her.

Clearing my throat, I continue, "It starts one month ago."

And I tell her the truth, in between whispers and glancing shoppers and too-excited saleswomen. I tell her about how I killed the Campus Killer, the one who is in the newspapers, which is why it confuses me that he is still rampant in the streets.

I tell her how I stumbled into the bottom of the Underground.

I tell her about the bottom 50 floors, and I tell her about what I found there. The truth of where our money comes from.

I tell her about my confrontation with Anise, and my plan.

I tell her I want to take down both gangs from the inside out.

The only part I leave out are the two young girls who arrived in the shipment truck. Lacy and Kiara. They finally told me their names, and I have spent the past three days protecting them. Hiding them.

I figure it would be a better idea to show Jude rather than tell her.

When I am done, her mouth is parted, her eyes wide, and she whispers, "I can't believe you just told me all that . . . in a lingerie store."

Surprised, I blink. Once. Twice. "Is that all you have to say?"

She gives me a rogue grin. "What? Let's collapse the hierarchy of the Mafia. Count me in."

"This isn't some action movie, it'll be dangerous," I warn. "This will be really risky, and almost everybody in this city will be against us. There's a good chance we might not even survive."

"But it's worth it," she says softly. "We have to give those girls justice. We have to do this, or die trying."

"This isn't your fight," I say, and her expression hardens.

"After all this, how can you still say that?" she demands, too loud. A saleslady looks up, surprised.

"Jude, I mean it. You never asked for this. You never wanted any part of this."

"My mom was once the Alpha of this gang," she says, and I know the realization has sunk into her that her mother was once a part of the trafficking ring. "And the Saints killed her. Both of these gangs have done evil. It's time for them to see retribution. Once and for all."

The people in the shop are watching us out of the corners of their eyes.

Fiercely, Jude says, "All in?"

An echo of what she once said to me.

In those two words, I know she believes me. That she trusts me.

"All in," I say.

>>>

Whooooo. That's it.

From the moon and back,

Sarai