Liam's POV
The hallway between our bedrooms felt like a demilitarized zone at midnight.
Dante leaned against his doorframe, the silver stud in his tongue catching moonlight as he smirked. "Relax, hermano. The cops bought our story."
I dragged a hand through my hair. "That's not the point. You shouldn't have—"
"—saved your Ivy-League ass?" He flicked my forehead. "Someone had to."
The unspoken truth hung between us: Dante's reputation was already shredded—flunked out of Berklee, two DUIs before twenty-one, last summer's cocaine-fueled yacht incident. Meanwhile, I was the Vega who still had a future.
"Dad hired a PI," Dante added, scrolling through his phone. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "They'll find the Shelby."
I stared at the cracked screen in his hand—a security feed of our driveway gate. "You're watching the cameras?"
"Old habit." He pocketed the phone. "Go drink some kale water or whatever you prep-school kids do to calm down."
I turned toward the stairs just as the gate intercom blared.
Dante was already moving. "Mierda. Cops?"
The monitor showed a silhouette crumpling against wrought iron.
Danika.
We bolted.
Dante reached her first, scooping her off the pavement like she weighed nothing. Blood streaked her bare feet. A bruise flowered along her collarbone.
"Cassia," she whispered into his neck.
That single word ignited something feral in Dante's eyes.
I reached for her hand. "We're calling the—"
"No cops." Danika's grip was vise-tight. "Just… let me breathe."
Dante carried her inside, kicking my bedroom door open. "Get the kit."
I returned with gauze and antiseptic to find him kneeling beside her, gently wiping gravel from her knees. The sight punched me in the throat—Dante Vega, who'd once stitched up his own knife wound with fishing line, handling her like blown glass.
Danika flinched when I dabbed iodine on her palm. "I'm fine."
"You're not," Dante growled.
She exhaled shakily. "Three more months. Then I'm at Stanford."
The reminder of her scholarship should've comforted me. Instead, it tasted like loss.
Dante tossed the bloody gauze aside. "You're staying here."
Danika snorted. "Your parents would love that."
"They're in Geneva until Thursday." Dante's thumb traced the bruise on her wrist. "Plenty of time to figure shit out."
I stiffened. This was myroom. My best friend. Yet Dante had somehow taken center stage—again.
Danika caught my expression. "Liam?"
"Tea," I blurted. "You want chamomile or—"
"Black. Two sugars." She offered a tired smile. "You remember."
Dante's gaze flicked between us. "I'll get it."
He left, and the room tilted.
Danika studied my bookshelf—the coding manuals, the dog-eared Vonnegut collection. "You kept my notes."
A stack of her handwritten algorithms sat beside my bed, margins filled with doodles. My face heated. "They're good references."
She touched my wrist. "Thank you. For… this."
The door banged open. Dante scowled at the electric kettle. "How the fuck does this thing—?"
I took over, hiding a smile. "It's not rocket science."
Dante dumped peppermint tea bags on the counter.
Danika made a face. "Ugh. You know I hate—"
"—peppermint," I finished, swapping them for Earl Grey. "Because it tastes like toothpaste."
Dante's eyes narrowed. "Since when do you notice this shit?"
"Since always." I stirred in sugar.
A charged silence. Then Dante leaned in, voice low. "Back off."
I froze. "What?"
"You heard me." His breath smelled of tobacco and spite. "She's not one of your charity cases."
The words landed like a sucker punch. Danika called from the bedroom, "You guys fighting over tea now?"
Dante plastered on a grin. "Nah, princesa. Just learning how to adult."
But his knuckles whitened around the mug.
I handed it to him. "Don't fuck this up."
He smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
As he walked away, my phone buzzed. An unknown number.
> PI found something. Meet me at the garage. Now. –
The Shelby. They'd found it.
And judging by Dante's smirk through the doorway—his fingers brushing Danika's as he handed her tea—I was about to pay for taking the fall.