“Yeah,” I grunt, wiping my hands on a torn rag that only spreads the blood around. “Tell her we’ve got Donovan. He’s not dead. We’re bringing him to the basement. She’s gonna have to keep him alive.”
Knox nods, already dialing. “She’s not going to be thrilled about this.”
“She doesn’t have to be. She just has to help us get the bastard to talk.”
Back at the clubhouse, everything moves fast. Prospects open the doors before we hit the brakes. Maggie and Frankie are clearing space in the basement. Darla’s hauling down the first-aid kits. Ruby grabs towels without being asked. The place buzzes with the charge of a live wire, all instinct and grit and brotherhood.
Candace is the first one down the stairs, hair pulled back, eyes burning with the same fire I’ve come to recognize, fierce and unrelenting. Her chest rises and falls too fast, breath forced through cracked ribs in an attempt at calm.
She doesn’t wait for instruction. Just moves. Efficient. Focused. She carries the look of someone born to see this bastard bleed. Our eyes meet for a split second. Hers full of fury and unspoken questions, mine weighted with everything I can’t say.
She’s still wearing my hoodie. There’s blood on the hem now, right where it hits her thigh. My breath catches. I don’t know if it’s possession or pride, but I feel it deeply. It’s not just personal anymore. It never was. Sloane—scrubs on, sneakerstight, gloves snapping against her wrists—is already in motion, barking orders with the precision of a field medic in a war zone. There’s sweat on her brow, but her hands don’t shake. Not once.
“What the hell did you bring me?” she growls, eyes sharp.
“The reason we’re going to blow this entire thing wide open,” I say, voice raw and rough as gravel.
She mutters something under her breath, equal parts curse and prayer, and checks Donovan’s vitals, assessing the damage. Her hands are fast, sure. Tourniquet. Gauze. Chest seal.
“Through-and-through. Missed the heart by inches. Lucky bastard,” she grits. The room is full. Too full. Everyone crowds in, watching. “If you’re not helping, get the hell out!” Sloane barks. “Out. Now.”
No one argues. Not even Nash. We all file out, but I hover in the doorway, watching her fight to keep Donovan breathing. There’s a war inside me, torn between wanting him alive and wishing I had pulled the trigger myself. My jaw aches from clenching. My nails have bitten into my palm. But I don’t move.
Donovan groans. Sloane pauses, eyes narrowing. “He’s waking up.”
I move fast, crouch beside him, lean in close. His eyelids flutter. There’s blood in his teeth. A rattle in his chest. The smell of it is iron-thick and wrong.
“Talk,” I growl. “You’re not dead yet. And you don’t get to die until I say so.”
His lips twitch, barely. Then a rasp, almost too soft to catch. “She’s already here.”
My stomach sinks. A cold claw wraps around my spine. “Who? Who’s here?”
He coughs, blood bubbling in the corner of his mouth. A weak, ugly smile follows. “The queen… always moves first.” Then he passes out.
My blood goes cold. Not fear. But something older. Something buried. Something that remembers. My phone rings. Victor.
I answer it on the first buzz. “Tell me.”
“It’s her,” he says. “It’s Alice. She’s in town. She was working with Donovan.”
The words slam into my chest with the force of a second explosion. A third. A fourth. The night Cornelius died is still detonating inside me. Alice. Candace’s mother. The woman who disappeared, who watched her daughter grow up in ruin and did nothing.
My hands clench into fists. Not just rage. Betrayal. For Candace. Olivia. For the ones who didn’t get a choice.
Behind me, I hear soft footsteps. Arden. Silent as death. His presence cools the air by ten degrees. He doesn’t speak to me. Just moves to Frankie, then murmurs something I can’t make out. Her face changes. Tightens. She nods once, mouth grim, and they vanish up the stairs.
No one asks. No one breathes.
The scent of blood lingers, but something else rides beneath it. Old. Cold. Ancient. Something’s shifting. And nothing will ever be the same again.
Victor’splacesmellsofantiseptic, leather, and grief. The kind that settles in your chest and doesn’t move. I step inside, boots tracking dust across polished hardwood, and immediately clock the tight circle of Outsiders in the dining room. East, Kyle, Nash. All alert. All silent.
The air feels heavier here. It carries the weight of war’s aftermath. We’re all braced, waiting for the next shot to land. Knox stayed behind with Sloane and the women, keeping the clubhouse locked down tight.
Victor’s off to the side, one arm curled around Olivia, holding her with the desperate grip of someone afraid she’ll vanish. Her skin’s too pale. Her eyes haunted. But she’s alive. That counts for something.
He hasn’t asked about Donovan. Not directly. And I haven’t volunteered the truth. Because the truth is a razor. After the hell they just walked through, I’m not sure either of them needs to bleed more. Not yet. But the blade’s in my pocket, ready.
