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I’m not going to force her to talk. I give her the minutes she needs, until I’m parking and she’s out of time. “Ready?”

Her hands fist in her skirt. “I don’t think so. Give me a minute.”

She doesn’t look like she wants to be touched, so I keep my hand to myself. No matter how much it itches to land on hers on top of her thigh and give it a reassuring squeeze. Whether I like it or not—whether it’s fucking fair or not—I’m why she’s second-guessing what she’ll say to her loved ones. My comfort isn’t what she needs right now.

It just means I’ve got to wait her out. Rather than nudge her after a minute, I give her five to stare out the windshield at the charming residential street in front of us, her hands bunching and smoothing back down her skirt, until I can see a head pop up in the window. I don’t have to guess whose shrewd, dark eyes stare out at the curb we’re idling on. At this point, I’ve profiled her entire fucking family for the most part. We both know it.

Meera doesn’t miss our spectator either. “Gayatri Martinez, ladies and gentlemen,” she grouses, but she just sounds fucking sad.

“Whatever you need to tell them, I’ll do my best to back up,” I offer. “Try to just follow your instincts. Remember the bigger picture. And that you’re a good fucking liar when you have to be.”

“You say the sweetest things to me, Leonid Yuri,” Meera deadpans.

My brows arch. “I thought we established sweetness is your purview?”

Despite herself, a laugh catches her off-guard. She recovers quickly, though. “Forget my purview, you pervert. Come open my door. My mother is watching and she’ll be judging you,” she orders, looking like she’s a second away from clapping her hands together and saying chop, chop.

Her spine is reinforced in steel, and I appraise her, admiring it. “I’m going to pretend not to take offense that you felt the need to tell me to do it,” I tsk at her, getting out of the driver’s side and rounding the bonnet to open her door. I even hold out a hand to her, the good one that isn’t still in a fucking sling. “I can play boyfriend.”

Curiously, Meera questions, “Have you been one before?”

Walking up the driveway to her mother’s house, I’m taken aback she’d choose this moment to ask—but it isn’t that surprising. It’s Meera. She’s strange and curious and has thicker skin than one would assume from the get-go. “No,” I admit. “I’ve fucked around plenty, but never with something with a label on it.”

She flashes me an unmistakably smug grin. “I’ve had three,” she boasts.

“Oh, so your type is idi—”

The door opens before either of us can ring the bell, and the man on the other side of the door is precisely what the dossier on him promised: a fifty-eight-year-old man with a trim build, wire-rimmed glasses over his amber eyes, and an aura of dependability about him. Meera’s stepfather, Daniel Martinez, looks at her first. They may not be bound by blood, but it’s easy to see that he cares deeply about her. His concern is rife, apparent, undeniable.

I don’t miss a beat. Clearly, I can’t afford to.

“Hello, Mr. Martinez. I’m Leo, Meera’s boyfriend,” I say, extending the only hand I can. “Thanks for having us.”

Meera’s eyes bore into the side of my skull. She hadn’t explicitly told me to say it; she’d suggested the cover off the top of her head, thrown it out on impulse. But when my lips shape around the word—this label I’ve never before worn—I find that I fucking like it.

Daniel’s handshake is firm. “Hello, Leo. Come on in,” he says. To Meera, he shoots a significant look. “She’s in the kitchen, mija.”

She isn’t Meera.

I hear Gayatri Martinez before I see her. There’s the clatter of a pot being set down with more force than likely necessary, and then a voice—blunt, firm, meaning business—calls from around the corner, “Is it her, Danny?”

Meera stiffens beside me. I pivot, skirting around her to her other side, slotting in beside her. The shift allows my good arm to wrap around her waist, giving her hip a reassuring squeeze. “Hi, Mumma,” she says.

We walk into the kitchen and I understand, on sight, where Meera gets the lion’s share of her looks.

Her chocolate irises settle in easier with her coloring than the stark contrast of Meera’s icy greys. The woman in front of me is a more weathered looking version of Meera’s deep brown skin, her high cheekbones, and her silky dark hair—it’s jarring to see it streaked with silver and pulled back in a severe bun. She’s shorter than Meera, too, by a handful of inches. But there’s an innate energy about this woman that warns one against underestimating her. Her voice matches the flat look on her face. “Nothing all week, Meera?” she asks, wearing her disappointment openly. “Your brother’s been beside himself. Daniel had to talk me out of filing a police report.”

The irony of that nearly chokes me.

“Sorry, Mumma. Like I told you on the phone, I—”

“Met someone, yes,” Gayatri says, the words clipped. She finally acknowledges me, her shrewd gaze zeroing in on me. “That would be you?”

I’ve looked down the barrel of too many guns to flinch. But, still, I’m extremely aware of the journey her eyes take from the sling, the tattoos on my forearms, and my face, before they return to the sling. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Leo,” I offer her my hand too, based on her no-nonsense tone.

Gayatri appraises me, and finally, grudgingly, allows me to take her hand. “You look like you’ve been in a fight.” It isn’t a question.

“Car accident,” I lie effortlessly, gesturing to the sling. “Other guy’s insurance is handling it, though. So I’m in the clear.”