“Don’t you dare shut me out, East. Not now,” she asserts, stepping closer. “That was my father. My life. My fight. You don’t get to hide the consequences from me.”
This isn't the broken girl from last night. This is someone else. Someone forged in fire.
“Darla, it’s not for you to carry—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Not for me to carry?” Her laugh is a brittle, heartbreaking sound that makes her flinch again, her hand instinctively going to her side. “I was the one at that... that human trafficking ring dressed up as a gala. He put his hands on me. I was the one who pulled the trigger.” She says it without flinching, her words a testament to the hell she walked through. “I have carried it. I am still carrying it. What I won’t carry is being left in the dark while men make decisions about my life. I am done with that.”
Her words hit me with the force of a physical blow. She’s right. To shield her now isn't protection—it's just another cage. It's the same thing her father did, just with a different motive.
My shoulders slump, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a wave of profound respect. I cross the room toward the couch and turn, leaning my hips back against the arm of it so I'm facing her, bridging the gap between us.
“You’re right,” I say, the admission scraping raw from my throat. “You’ve earned the right to know everything.”
She watches me, waiting to see if I’ll follow through.
I take a breath. “It’s a two-part plan. The first part already happened. Retaliation.” A slow grin spreads across my face. “Frankie gave me the details. Apparently, the girls paid Trent a visit at the hospital last night.”
Her brow furrows, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
“According to Frankie, they named it ‘Mission: Immasculate’,” I say, watching her closely. “Something about emasculating him being an impossible mission? Ruby’s logic.” I see a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “They put your glitter boots and a feather boa on him while he was drugged up. Sloane apparently relabeled his catheter ‘Princess Tinkles’.”
A sound escapes her. It’s not a laugh, not yet, but it’s close—a choked, watery gasp of disbelief that makes my chest ache with relief.
“Ruby drew a picture of him being wheeled into the underworld by glitter demons, and Sloane got the entire nursing staff to sign it,” I finish, my grin widening. “Sloane made it happen.”
She finally looks at me, and a real, watery smile breaks through. “Princess Tinkles?”
“Princess Tinkles,” I confirm, my heart giving a hard kick. That smile is the first real victory we’ve had.
The humor fades, and my expression turns serious again. “The second part is intel,” I continue, my voice dropping. “We need to find Chuck Giles. The bastard is hiding after what he did to Candace, but we know he has ties to Donovan Castiel. If Winston is working with Donovan now, Chuck is our best shot at proving it.”
The name hangs in the air between us, heavy and toxic. I see her flinch—a barely perceptible tremor that runs through her entire body. Her hand comes up to her mouth for a split second before she presses it flat against her stomach, her knuckles going white. The fear that flashes in her eyes is something more personal than just hearing a boogeyman’s name. It’s the sharp, immediate terror of someone who knows for a fact that the monster is real.
Her reaction only hardens my resolve. She knows the danger. And she’s still here.
Darla’s expression shifts, the terror hardening into a familiar, fierce defiance. “I’m coming with you,” she states, her voice steady and unyielding.
My gut twists. “No. It’s too dangerous, Darla.”
Her expression hardens. “I will not sit here, useless, while you hunt down the man who helped ruin Candace’s life. When you're done, I need to be at the clubhouse. I need to be there for her. I'm not hiding anymore, East. Not from the fight, and not from being a friend.”
I run a hand through my hair, my mind racing. There’s no winning this. “Fine.” I sigh. “But Darla, your ribs are cracked. You can barely stand up without wincing. Hopping on the back of my bike is a bad idea. We’re taking the truck. It’s safer.”
Her eyes flash. “No. I want to ride with you on the bike.”
I furrow my brow. “Why? You’ve never wanted to ride with me before.”
A flicker of something painful passes across her features. “That’s not true,” she admits, her voice so quiet I almost miss it. “I’ve always wanted to. I was just... afraid.” She meets my gaze, and the raw vulnerability there hits me harder than her defiance. “I’m not afraid anymore. Not of this. I will not sit on the sidelines of my life anymore.”
It’s a bold statement, a declaration that she trusts me. My heart hammers with a mix of bone-deep fear for her safety and a rush of admiration so fierce it leaves me breathless. I nod, my voice tight. “Okay. But you listen to me. Every word.”
I turn and grab my leather jacket from the hook by the door. I close the small space between us, my movements slow and deliberate. She goes still as I hold the heavy jacket open for her.
My voice is rougher than I intend when I say, “Arms.”
She slides her arms into the sleeves, and I see a faint wince of pain cross her face as the movement pulls at her bruised ribs. I gently settle the jacket over her shoulders, my hands lingering there for a beat too long.
“Sloane left a rib wrap in the bag,” I say, forcing my hands down. “It’ll hurt either way, but this keeps you steady.”
