The rage boils over. I pull my fist back and drive it into his face with enough force to snap his head back against the wall. Blood explodes from his nose, painting his mouth red.
"Motherfucker!" he snarls, spitting blood and launching himself at me, all that pent-up fury finally finding an outlet.
We've fought before. Brothers working out aggression in the gym or the ring.
This isn't that.
His fist connects with my ribs, and even through the tactical vest, I feel it. I grab him by the shoulders and drive my knee into his stomach. He folds.
"Stop it! Both of you, fucking stop!"
Jinx's voice cries out through the violence, and suddenly he's between us, those blue eyes wide and desperate. His long fingers wrap in the front of my shirt. "Please, Tank. Don't do this. Not now."
I could toss him aside and keep beating Kade into understanding. But this is Jinx. Jinx who's looking at me like I'm about to break something that can't be fixed.
My hands shake as I sign, my breathing uneven through my mask.He let her leave. Again. Didn't even fucking try to fix it.
"She was always going to run," Jinx says softly.
She needs us!
"She doesn't give a shit about any of us, Tank!" Cyrus cuts a hand through his tousled hair, blood from his split lip dripping onto his expensive shirt.
When did I hit him?Shit.
Maybe Jinx wasn't the only one who tried to get between us and I just blocked it out.
Cyrus spits the blood on the floor before glaring back at me. "Kade's right about one thing. Shewillbe back. Where else is she gonna go? Who else is suicidal enough to kill a fuckingsenatorfor her?"
I stare at them. My brothers. My family. The only people who've ever given a shit about me, or even treated me like a human being, besides her.
But I only stop when I see how fucking tired Jinx looks. Like he's aged ten years in ten minutes. The cocky, carefree mask—the mask he wears as obsessively as I wear mine—has finally slipped.
Even Jinx doesn't understand.
None of them do. How could they? They can speak, can explain themselves with words and intonations instead of violence and silence. They don't know what it's like to have so much to say and no way to say it.
I storm toward the door, needing air, needing space, needing to make sure she's okay even if she doesn't want me to.
"Tank, where the fuck are you going?" Kade calls after me, but I don't stop. Don't look back.
Because if I do, I'll kill him.
The warehouse is a maze of shadows and rust, but I know every inch of it. Have to in our line of work. My bike waits outside like a faithful black and chrome hound. The same bike Ellie rode home that last night, her arms wrapped around my chest, my heart slamming against her palm because I knew every fucking mile brought us closer to goodbye.
Never could bring myself to get rid of it. Sometimes I ride it around and imagine she's still holding me.
The engine roars to life, drowning out whatever bullshit Kade's shouting from the doorway.
I know where she's going. I've followed this route so many times I could do it in my sleep, unconscious, dead. The familiar streets blur past as I push the bike harder, faster, like maybe if I go fast enough I can outrun the memory of fear in her eyes when she looked at me.
Even if she looked at the others the same way.
Her car, a tan Audi, comes into view three blocks ahead. She's driving carefully, hands at ten and two, probably counting to five over and over the way she does when she's anxious. I hang back, keeping my distance. Just another shadow in her rearview mirror.
The city changes as we move from industrial decay to suburban prosperity. From our world to hers. The buildings get cleaner, the streets get wider, and the space between us feels like it's growing even though I keep the same following distance.
She pulls into the parking lot of Saylor University and I kill my engine at the tree line. This is familiar too. How many nights have I sat here, watching her window, making sure she got home safe?
