“I feel like I’m being strangled by a silk snake,” he’d grumbled, the low rumble of his voice a stark contrast to the high-pitched pop music still bleeding through the doors.
“You’re just not used to looking respectable,” I’d teased, stepping closer into his space to fix it for him.
My fingers had brushed the warm skin of his neck, and the air had shifted. The joking stopped. The world narrowed to the few inches between us. His eyes, so full of easy laughter just a moment before, had darkened, his gaze dropping to my mouth.He’d leaned in, a slow, deliberate movement, and my heart had hammered a frantic, hopeful drumbeat against my ribs. Finally.
“There you are.”
Declan’s voice, soft and familiar, had cut through the moment. We’d sprung apart as if we’d been caught doing something wrong. He was standing there, holding two cups of punch, his easy smile not quite reaching his eyes as he looked between us. “I was looking for you.”
East had just shoved his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight. And the moment was gone. Stolen.
The thumping bass from inside the clubhouse is a physical blow, dragging me back to the present. To this alley. To the same impossible distance. Some things never change. The air feels wrong in my lungs—too hot, too real. Like smoke, the past peels away, but the ache it leaves behind doesn’t.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I push off the cold brick wall. I can’t stay out here. I can’t run. Somewhere inside, Nash’s steady voice rumbles—a reminder that even silence has sentinels here. All that’s left is to walk back into the fire. I retreat into the noise, back into the light, searching for the safety of the bar. Back to Frankie.
She hooks her arm through mine, a familiar tug toward a high-top she’d already claimed hours ago. Her grin is wicked, sharp enough to ward off anyone stupid enough to think about cutting in.
“You disappear for five minutes,” she singsongs, “and somehow East is suddenly playing guard dog. Should I be jealous?”
I snort too loudly, tossing my hair back as if the sound alone can scatter the ache in my chest. “If I wanted a babysitter, I’d call the mayor’s office.”
“Please.” Frankie drags out the word, rolling her eyes. “Your father couldn’t babysit a potted plant.”
I laugh for real this time; the sound tears out sharper than I mean it to. “You’re not wrong.”
She grins, pleased with herself, and kicks the chair out from under the high-top like she owns gravity. “Two waters and pretzels,” she calls, not even glancing at Kyle before he hurries to obey. He moves fast—too fast. With the same spark East used to have before life taught him to slow down. Watching him now feels like looking at the before version of someone I already know the ending to. Then, lowering her voice, “You’re pale. Drink before you faceplant.”
I glare, but I down half the water anyway. The cool liquid slides down my throat that’s raw with things I won’t say.
Frankie watches me over the rim of her glass. She’s always been able to do that—look too long, too steady, like she can read more than I want her to. Maybe she can.
I push my hair back, restless. “He invited Trent over. For dinner. Saturday night.”
Her mouth stills around the pretzel she’s chewing. She sets it down slowly. “Trent Moreland?”
“Mm-hmm.” I try for casual, and fail. “Apparently the Graves and Morelands go way back. Dad thinks it’s time I ‘got acquainted.’”
Frankie leans back in her chair, stretching her legs out like she’s making space for the rage settling in. “Acquainted. That’s one word for auctioning you off to a creep.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Well, he didn’t phrase it like that. He said it with silverware clinking and candlelight. Very civilized.”
Her eyes narrow, storm-dark. “You’re not going—”. Her expression shifts, the hot anger receding, replaced by that still, watchful look. It’s the one that always makes the hair on myarms stand up. The air between us seems to thicken, like the moment before lightning strikes. It’s always like this when her eyes go unfocused—like she’s listening to something I can’t hear. Her eyes go distant, unfocused for a second.
“Okay,” she says, the word a quiet, grim statement of fact. “So you’re going.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I mutter, the words a confirmation of something she already seemed to know.
Frankie’s finger traces a lazy, invisible symbol on the bar top. “You always have a choice,” she says, her gaze still distant, as if she’s reading something in the wood grain. Her tone has that undercurrent again—the one that makes the air feel thicker. “But the moment he walks into your house, you be on guard. The air around that name is… spoiled. Watch everything. Listen to what they don’t say. Be a snake in the garden, Darla. Not a lamb.”
I shiver, even though the room is sweltering. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is.” She smirks, the focus snapping back to her eyes, tossing a pretzel into her mouth. “You forget who you’re talking to. I’ve been getting you out of trouble since sophomore year. Choir room Pop-Tarts, remember?”
Despite myself, I grin. “You swore the fire was divine punishment for bad song choices.”
“Still true,” she says, smug. Then, quieter, “Don’t let him script your life, Darla. Not Trent, not Winston. You hear me? There are ways out of any cage. You just have to find the right key... or a big enough hammer.”
I sip the rest of my water to hide the lump in my throat. “I hear you.”
