With that, she hangs up, her voice fading into silence, leaving an echo of worry hanging in the air.
The silence returns, heavier this time. East finally risks a glance at me, and his eyes—usually so full of easy charm or cold fire—are raw. For a split second, I don’t see the hardened club treasurer. I see the boy from seven years ago, the one whose eyes held a galaxy of unspoken things right before the world fell apart. The look is so intense, so full of a pain that mirrors my own, that I have to look away first, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs.
I can’t help but break the quiet. “You really care, don’t you?” My voice is softer than I intended, laced with curiosity.
East finally glances at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “I’ve always cared about you, Darla,” he says in a rough voice. He looks back at the road. “And now you’re one of us. That’s not going to change.”
“Even after everything?” I ask, the weight of my past pressing down on me.
His gaze sharpens, cutting to me for a brief, fierce moment. “Especially after everything.”
That simple statement ignites a flicker of hope in my chest, a warmth that spreads through the weighty silence between us. For a fleeting moment, the heaviness feels a touch lighter. Then my stomach churns. Not from nerves about Sloane’s impending arrival, but from the gnawing reminder that Trent and Winston are still out there, lurking like shadows in my mind. I’m still trapped in this nightmare, and all I can think about is the gun—the recoil, the scent of smoke. I shot a man. The visceral shock of that reality sends a shudder through me.
As we pull into East’s driveway, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires punctuates the quiet, each stone a reminder of the reality I can’t escape. I brace myself for chaos behind that front door, picturing an untidy bachelor’s den filled with empty beer cans and discarded takeout boxes. But when East opens the door, I’m met with an unexpected sight. The porch light casts a warm glow, illuminating a welcome mat that is neither ironic nor grimy. The house itself stands in stark contrast to my expectations—neat, intentional, as if every detail has been carefully curated.
“After you,” East says, stepping aside. His eyes are steady on mine, but as I pass, my arm brushes his chest, and the air crackles with a sudden charge. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second with a flicker of heat so quick I almost think I imagined it before he masters himself, and his expression settles back into one of careful concern.
I step inside, inhaling deeply. The scent of cedar mingles with fresh linen, a comforting aroma that feels like a breath of fresh air. It’s not the harsh smell of bleach or the overpowering sweetness of air fresheners; it’s simply him. The interior is bright and open, modern in its design. Stainless steel appliances gleam under the soft lighting, black countertops contrasting with the rich wood floors. A leather couch sits invitingly, devoid of throw pillows, and a bookshelf brims with actual books, their spines lined up neatly. Next to the TV, an old record player stands proudly, vinyl records stacked beside it, waiting to be played. There are no candles flickering, no lingering traces of perfume—just a sense of solitude that wraps around me like a warm blanket.
“It’s… quiet,” I murmur, glancing back at East.
He’s watching me with an intensity that’s more than just concern. It's a raw, assessing look that seems to peel back every layer I'm hiding behind, seeing not just the victim from tonight, but the girl from all those years ago. It makes my heart race with a feeling that's equal parts fear and a dangerous, forgotten flutter.
“Yeah, it’s my sanctuary,” he replies, his voice low. “A place to escape all the noise.”
I nod, feeling the weight of his words. “It’s nice,” I say, almost shyly, even as I grapple with the conflicting emotions roiling inside me. Yes, it’s safe here, but what does it mean to depend on someone else for that safety? Isn’t that just exchanging one cage for another?
“This way,” he gestures toward a hallway, his tone shifting to something more purposeful. He leads me down the corridor, pausing at a door on the left. “Guest room’s yours. Bathroom’s through that door,” he says, pointing to an adjoining door inside the room. “My room’s just across the hall. If you need anything, just holler.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, caught in the swell of emotions threatening to spill over.
He doesn’t linger, but he doesn’t leave right away either. His gaze takes in the oversized shirt, the bruise darkening on my cheek, the slight tremor in my hands. His expression is pained, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to reach out. To brush a stray strand of hair from my face, or touch my bruised skin, something. Instead, he clenches his hand into a fist at his side. The internal battle is so clear on his face it makes my breath catch.
“You don’t have any of your stuff,” he says, the observation a statement of fact. His voice is rough. “You’re okay to wear my things for tonight, but… tomorrow, we can get Frankie to takeyou shopping. Or my mom. Whatever you want. We’ll get you anything you need.”
The simple, practical offer, the assumption that there is a tomorrow to plan for, makes my throat tighten. “Okay,” I whisper.
With a brief nod, East turns and strides away, leaving me rooted in the doorway, the quiet wrapping around me like a cocoon spun from soft silk. Stepping into the room lets the door click shut behind me with a gentle finality. I reach for the lock, but it’s just a hollow space where a mechanism should be—an absence that echoes my sense of vulnerability.
The room is simple yet inviting. Gray bedding is neatly arranged on the bed, and a wooden dresser stands proudly against the wall. A folded blanket lies casually over the chair, as if someone had just used it. Everything feels clean, orderly, and oddly comforting in its stillness.
I wander into the en-suite bathroom, flicking on the light. My reflection catches me off guard, the harsh brightness illuminating the damage beneath my skin. The swelling has intensified now that the adrenaline has faded, bruises blooming along my cheek and the bend of my arm in shades of purple and blue. I lift the hem of the T-shirt and see darker shadows marring my ribs. The skin along my jaw is taut and warm to the touch, a stark reminder of the chaos I’ve just escaped. But it’s my eyes that draw me in. They’re too wide, too weary, as if they belong to a stranger trapped within my body.
What have I become? I shot Trent to escape, to reclaim my life, and yet the thought of that violence hangs over me like a dark cloud. Each bruise tells a story, but this one—the one from the gun—feels like a mark I’ll never wash away.
A familiar sound pulls me from my thoughts: the front door creaks open again. Low voices drift in—East’s deep tone followed by a woman’s voice, cool and composed. Sloane.
Footsteps approach, moving with the rhythm of people accustomed to navigating tension without causing a stir. There’s a knock at the bedroom door.
“It’s me,” East calls out. “Sloane and Knox are here.”
I step out of the bathroom and open the door slowly. Sloane steps inside, her arms full. She’s not just carrying her medical bag, but a large paper grocery bag, too. She’s still clad in dark blue scrubs, a zip-up hoodie draped over her shoulders, her hospital badge clipped to her collar. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, though loose strands escape and frame her face. The scent of antiseptic mingles with something warmer and more inviting, a reminder of safety.
Knox remains in the hallway, his presence quiet but steady. He and Sloane share a look as she passes him—a flicker of something tense and unreadable that makes my stomach clench in recognition. It’s the look of two people sharing a space, but not a life. He gives me a brief, polite nod, his eyes carefully blank, then turns his focus back to the hallway, a silent guard.
“Guest room’s perfect,” Sloane states, placing her medical bag on the dresser and handing me the paper bag. “The girls put this together for you. Clothes, toiletries… the essentials.” She shrugs, a small, wry smile touching her lips. “Frankie threw in some, uh, 'spiritual protection,' too.” I peek inside and see a bundle of sage tied with string resting on top of a folded T-shirt. “And Ruby added a bag of gummy bears that are probably 90% vodka.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed as Sloane pulls out her supplies. There’s no small talk, just the business of healing. “Let’s start at the top,” she says, tilting my chin gently upward. Her fingers are cool yet confident as she examines me.
