The question sends a jolt of heat through me, sharp and immediate. The memory of this morning in the kitchen crashes over me, so vivid it’s like I’m still there.
His hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in. The playful energy had vanished, replaced by something raw and electric. His voice, a low murmur against my skin, promising a meticulous revenge. I remember the feel of his mouth on my neck, a possessive, branding heat that was meant to erase a bruise left by another man. The way my hands had flown up to fist in his shirt, holding on as he whispered threats that sounded like promises.
My head had fallen back against the cabinets with a soft thud in the sudden, charged silence. A broken sound escaped my lips—his name. I remember the shock of his fingers, the slide and press and relentless circles that had me unraveling. I remember shattering against his hand, and the look in his eyes when he lifted his fingers to his mouth, tasting me with a look of pure, savage ownership. The memory makes my stomach clench, a slow, dangerous warmth pooling low in my belly.
I come back to the present with a start, my cheeks flushed. All of them are watching me.
“Oh, he knows it was me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. A slow, genuine smile spreads across my face. “I’m not worried about his revenge. He’ll be creative.” The words are out before I can stop them, laced with a thrill I don’t hide. “I’m actually looking forward to it.”
Ruby lets out a low whistle. “Ooooh, I like this energy. This is a whole new Darla.”
“She’s not wrong,” Sloane adds, her voice quiet. “Payback is definitely coming. Knox has been organizing… things… in the garage. I think we need to be prepared.”
“Let them try,” Ruby says with a dismissive wave. “They’re cute when they’re plotting.”
Frankie, who has been quietly sketching in the corner, looks up. Her gaze is different. It’s old and knowing, seeing far too much. She sees the heat I’m trying to hide; the memory playing behind my eyes.
“Darla,” she says, her voice casual, “come help me find the good tequila. Ruby’s not responsible enough for it.”
Ruby squawks in protest as I get up and follow Frankie to the small kitchenette. Frankie doesn’t look for tequila. She just leans against the counter and looks at me, her head tilted.
“There’s less chaos in your head tonight,” she says softly. “But a different kind of storm. It has a name, doesn’t it?”
I look down at my hands, my heart hammering. She knows. Of course she knows. “I don’t know what it is, Frankie.”
“Don’t you?” Her voice is gentle. “You’re not afraid of his fire. Maybe that’s because you recognize it.”
I think of the way he held back in the kitchen, the way his promise of revenge was all about my pleasure. Frankie is right. It’s a fire, but for once in my life, I’m not afraid of being burned. A wave of emotion so strong it makes my throat tight. “It’s… new,” I whisper.
Frankie just nods with a small, sure smile on her face. “Good. New is good for you.”
Just then, Sloane drifts into the kitchenette, her own wineglass empty. She stops when she sees us and gives a small, hesitant smile, as if she’s not sure she’s allowed in this private moment.
Her hesitation is clear; she’s always on the edge, a part of the group yet separate. That loneliness is familiar. It was a feeling I lived with for seven years. “Hey,” I say, offering her a warm smile, an invitation. “Taking a break from the chaos?”
Sloane laughs, a small, relieved sound, but her shoulders are still tense. “Just for a second. It’s... a little loud out there.”
Frankie turns, her gaze softening as she looks at Sloane. She doesn’t grab the tequila. She just leans against the counter. “You don’t have to hover, you know,” Frankie says, her voice soft, but with that familiar, unnerving certainty. “You’re always standing at the edge of the room, like you’re waiting for someone to ask you to leave.”
Sloane’s face flushes. “I’m not… I just…”
“It’s okay,” Frankie cuts her off, her voice gentle. “I’m just saying you can stop. You’re part of this circle now. The energy has… settled. You belong here, Sloane.” She looks from me to Sloane, her gaze sharp and fiercely protective. “And we protect what belongs to us. All of us. We’re fighting Darla’s battle. Wefought for Candace. If a storm comes for you, we’ll fight that one, too. That’s just how this works.”
Sloane just stares at her, her mask of cool composure completely shattered. Her throat works, and she blinks, her eyes suddenly bright. She doesn’t say thank you. She just nods, a single, jerky movement. I watch her, and my heart aches with recognition. She’s not just quiet. She’s been alone for a long, long time. I know exactly what that looks like.
Frankie, her point made, finally turns and grabs the tequila bottle. “Now,” she says, her tone bright again. “Let’s go before Ruby tries to light something on fire.”
We rejoin the group, but the mood shifts as the initial high of the prank recap fades.
Sloane is the one who says it, her voice quiet but clear, still a little shaken from Frankie’s words. “So, the transport. The guys said Chuck gave them a timeline. We have a few days.”
The laughter dies. The real war is back in the room.
“So what do we do?” I ask, my voice firmer than I expect.
“We get ready,” Candace says, her expression grim. “We gather intel. Ruby, you’re on the brunch circuit. Get us names. Anyone connected to the Vassallo Foundation or my mother.”
“On it,” Ruby says, her usual sparkle replaced by a cold fire.
