East nods, his expression hardening. “He’s a key player in the society that runs all of this.” He pauses, letting the weight of that land before delivering the final blow. “Chuck gave us a timeline. The next big auction is months away, but they’re gathering the girls for it now. The consignment deadline is this week. There’s a transport leaving the state in a few days.”
Chapter 20
East
Theridebackfromthe clubhouse is a silent, heavy thing. The Harley’s engine, usually a roar of defiance, feels like a low groan cutting through the sleeping streets. Every pothole is a potential jolt to her bruised ribs, every car that gets too close a threat my body tenses against. The woman on my back is a fragile, precious weight, her hands a tentative grip on my jacket.
The crunch of gravel in my driveway is too loud. I kill the engine, and we’re plunged into a silence that feels heavier than the noise it replaced. A single porch light glows like a lonely beacon in the dark. My house is my sanctuary, the one place that is quiet, ordered, and mine. The war found her, so this is the only fortress I have to fight it from. I wouldn’t want her anywhere else.
She slides off the bike before I can help her, her movements stiff with pain. I take the steps two at a time, unlocking the door and pushing it open. The familiar scent of cedar and clean linengreets me. It’s a stark contrast to the coppery tang of violence that still clings to the air around us.
“Go on in,” I say, my voice rough.
Darla steps past me into the entryway, a small, wounded shadow in the soft light. I watch her gaze drift over the polished wood floors, the leather couch, the neat rows of records. She looks at the quiet order of my life, and I wonder if tonight, it feels like peace or just another cage.
I shut the door behind us; the sound echoes in the quiet house. “The girls are taking you shopping tomorrow, right?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.
She nods, a small, tired movement. “Frankie is picking me up at ten.”
“Okay,” I say, my jaw tightening. “Rider will be with you. A shadow. He’ll keep his distance, but he’ll be there. Just in case.” I want to be the one to go, to keep my eyes on her, but the thought of caging her, of not giving her the freedom she just fought for, is a bitter pill. “I just… need to know you’re safe.”
“I will be,” she says, and there’s a hint of her fire back in her eyes. Then her voice softens. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Yeah,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. “Good idea.”
She heads down the short corridor, the door to the guest room clicking softly shut behind her. The simple domestic act leaves me feeling strangely adrift in my own home. I retreat to the kitchen and pour myself two fingers of whiskey.
The night’s events are a highlight reel of horror playing on a loop behind my eyes. Chuck’s broken face. Candace’s raw, shattered grief. Malachi’s final cold justice. Declan’s promise is a ghost whispering failure in my ear. Take care of her. How can I when the world I’ve brought her into is just as brutal as the one she escaped?
Then, I hear it. The whisper of the shower starting in the guest bathroom. And the highlight reel changes. All I can picture isher standing under the hot spray. The thought makes my hand clench around the glass. I can see the water sluicing over her pale skin, tracing the dark bloom of bruises on her ribs. I can smell the sharp, clean scent of the citrus soap Sloane gave her. My cock stirs, a thick, heavy pulse of want that is completely at odds with the protective terror in my chest. I want to keep her safe from the world, and I want to be the one to wreck her in the best possible way. The two instincts are at war inside me, a vicious, impossible conflict.
Giving up, I push off the barstool and head toward the living room. I sink onto the couch, the leather cool against my skin, and stare at the blank TV screen, seeing nothing but her. An hour later, the whiskey is gone, and I know I won’t sleep.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. I look up. She’s a silhouette in the doorway, a fragile shape wrapped in my oversized gray T-shirt, staring out into the darkness.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” I ask, my voice low.
She turns. The moonlight turns her pale blonde hair silver and catches on the dark bloom of the bruise on her cheek. “The quiet is too loud,” she says.
I nod, understanding completely. I cross to the record player, flipping through the vinyls until I find an old, bluesy album, something with a low, mournful guitar that can fill the space without breaking it. The soft crackle of the needle finding the groove is the only sound.
She watches me, then her voice comes, so soft I almost miss it. “Are you okay?”
The question hits me like a punch to the gut. My default setting kicks in. “Peachy. Just deposed a traitor and planned a war. Usual Tuesday night.”
It sounds hollow even to my own ears.
She doesn’t smile. “You don’t have to perform for me, East,” she says quietly. “I saw you tonight.”
The dam inside me cracks. I lean my hands back on the edge of the bookshelf. “It’s a hell of a thing,” I admit, my voice rough. “Knowing what needs to be done. Knowing what it’ll cost.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For dragging you into this. For being…”
“Don’t,” I cut her off. “Don’t you dare say you’re a burden.” I push off the shelf and close the space between us. “This started for me seven years ago, Darla. It started the second Declan…” I can’t finish the sentence. “My only fear,” I confess, the words scraping their way out, “is failing him. Failing you.”
Tears well in her eyes, silver in the moonlight. “My only fear is that you’ll die trying.”
Raw, terrifying honesty hangs heavy between us. Our space contracts, the air thickens, charged with the weight of our shared past. A quiet melody, mutual sorrow, and an undeniable pull all converge in this moment.
