Knox turns serious again, glancing at me. “We keep her safe until we know more.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” I mutter, my voice low but firm.
He looks over at me, eyebrows raised. “You volunteering to babysit?”
“She’s not a loose end,” I reply, my voice laced with conviction.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the sounds of the fight and the clinking of bottles.
Knox tilts his head, a curious expression on his face. “No one said she was.”
“She’s family,” I say, the words ringing with finality.
That lands in the air between us.
Malachi’s dark gaze pins me, assessing. “That official?”
I nod once, the weight of history hanging in the air. “It is now.”
They don’t ask why even though they don’t know the full history. They don’t need to. Maybe they wonder. Maybe they feel the tension in the way I watch her. But the call’s been made.
Knox gives a short nod. “Then she’s in.”
Nash claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, solid and reassuring. No words needed. Frankie exhales like she’s been holding her breath, her eyes searching for answers.
Malachi doesn’t say a word. Just glances once toward the couch, then back to me. “Then we keep her close.”
That’s the plan.
Except Frankie’s already walking toward me with that look on her face that means she’s about to light a fuse.
She stops in front of me, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “She’s coming with me tonight,” she states, firm as a law.
My gut clenches. I know what this is about. Frankie’s loft is a sanctuary. I get it. But it’s also a second-floor apartment with a flimsy lock on a side street. It’s not a fortress. My house is. It’s a simple tactical fact.If Winston or Trent come looking for her, where do I want her to be?Behind my walls, with me.
Frankie’s goal is to make Darla feel safe. My goal is tokeepher safe. The two are at war, and my jaw tightens.
She says it like it’s fact, like it’s already done and my opinion’s just background noise she’s letting finish before she moves the scene along.
“No.” My voice cuts through the tension. “She’s not.”
Frankie’s jaw tenses, her frustration simmering. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m telling you she’s not going with you.”
“She already said—”
“She hasn’t said shit since she came downstairs,” I snap, unable to contain my anger.
Frankie flinches, just barely. It’s like I hit a nerve I wasn’t aiming for, and the air between us thickens.
I lower my voice, more measured now. “You don’t have the space. You don’t have the locks. And you don’t have the full picture.” I’m not just worried about Trent. I’m worried aboutGraves. About the whole damn rotten system I just found a thread of.
“I have her,” Frankie says, stepping closer, her eyes fierce. “I’m the only one she’s talked to. I’ve been there.”
“And you know what happened that night,” I cut in, urgency fueling my words. “You know what I promised.”
Frankie stills at that, the weight of our shared history hanging heavy between us.
