His words hit me like a bucket of ice water, slicing through the haze of my fury.Would I?I try to fight it, to hold on to the simple, clean rage. But he’s right.Fuck.I would have buried the truth and shouldered the weight. A fortress of lies would havebeen constructed to shield her. Exactly what she did would have been done.
The tension in my shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it shifts. My grip on the Glock loosens, my fingers going numb. The rage is still there, a wildfire in my blood, but it’s no longer aimed at her. It’s aimed at the man who did this to us. Winston.
Just as that thought settles in, headlights slice through the trees at the end of the long driveway. A car. My body goes rigid, my grip on the Glock instantly tightening again.Threat.
“Easy,” Nash murmurs, his hand firm on my shoulder, grounding me. “I texted Frankie our location. Figured you might need a minute before you went back.”
The car pulls up, and Darla steps out, looking pale but resolute in the dim twilight. Frankie remains in the driver’s seat, a silent guardian. Darla approaches cautiously, her movements deliberate, giving me space as her eyes search my face for the anger she knows is still simmering just beneath the surface.
Her voice is quiet but firm, cutting through the tension. “I’m going to stay with Frankie for a few days. To give you space.”
The words hang in the air, mature and respectful, and they feel like a knife twisting in my gut.Space.The thought of her leaving, of her not being under my roof, a place where I can see her, where I know she’s safe... it’s a physical impossibility. After seven years of nothingbutspace, it’s the one thing I will not accept. A fresh wave of panic, hotter and sharper than the rage, claws up my throat.If he finds out she told me... he’ll come for her. He’ll come for both of us.
“No.”
The word erupts from me, a low, guttural growl that stops her in her tracks. She flinches, taken aback by the venom lacing my tone.
I close the distance between us, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper, the finality of my words hanging heavy in the air.“You’re not going anywhere. We’re done with secrets. All of us.” I glance at Nash, my decision solidified. “We’re heading back to the clubhouse. You’re telling them everything—Malachi, Knox, all of them. No more lies. No more protecting me.”
I turn back to her, my voice intense, my gaze locking onto hers. “And you’re going to tell me where that video is.”
She doesn’t hesitate, her resolve matching mine, a flicker of defiance igniting in her eyes. “It’s in a safe deposit box.”
“Where?”
“At Willowridge Bank and Trust,” she replies. “The one my father uses.”
Of course. The snake keeps his secrets close. “And the key?”
Her gaze meets mine, and I can see the new, terrifying obstacle laid out before us. A muscle in her jaw tightens.
“It’s at the house,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
“Your father’s house?” I clarify, my voice taut.
She nods, swallowing hard. “In my old bedroom. I hid it a long time ago, right after it happened. It’s… it’s in the music box Declan gave me for our sixteenth birthday. There’s a false bottom.”
The music box. I remember it. A small wooden thing with a porcelain ballerina. I remember him spending a whole month’s allowance on it, his face so proud when he gave it to her. Another piece of our past, now the key to our future. The game is on.
Chapter 30
Darla
Thewindlashesmyhair against my face like a frantic, stinging whip, but all I can feel is the rigid line of East’s spine pressing into my chest. His fury from the woods has morphed into a grim, tense determination, and I cling tighter, my fingers digging into the rough, worn leather of his cut.He didn’t let me go. He’s angry, but he didn’t leave me.Behind us, the steady headlight of Nash’s bike is a single, watchful eye, while Frankie’s car follows at a measured distance. A silent, loyal escort accompanying us into the brewing storm.
As we roll into the clubhouse parking lot, the familiar sight of the other bikes, glinting like bones under the security lights, brings a grim finality. This isn’t a visit or an escape. This is areckoning. The men and women milling around the front porch, their conversations cut to a low murmur, fall silent. Their eyes lock onto us as East kills the engine, the abrupt stillness ringing in my ears, louder than any noise. They were waiting for this moment.
He swings his leg off the bike and turns to me. His expression is shrouded in shadow, unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders is a tightly wound spring. “You ready for this?” His voice is low, gravelly, like the rumble of thunder before a storm.
My throat is dry. I shake my head, the motion feeling fragile, almost defeated.No. I’ll never be ready.“No.”
He nods, as if he expected my response. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—not pity, but a dark, shared understanding. He extends his hand. I stare at it for a beat, at the calloused fingers and grease-stained knuckles. The hand that held me in the woods. I take it. His calloused fingers envelop mine, a grounding, non-negotiable weight. Nash dismounts and Frankie steps out of her car, their faces set in serious lines. Together, we approach the clubhouse door, not just two people, but four—an unyielding, somber front.
Inside, the common room is thick with silence, the kind that feels heavy and expectant. The air smells like stale beer and fear. Everyone is here—Malachi, Knox, the rest of the club. Candace, Ruby, Sloane, and Maggie sit on the couches, their usual playful energy snuffed out, replaced by a taut anticipation that hangs in the air. Their gazes snap to our joined hands, curiosity and concern flickering in their eyes.
East doesn’t release me. He guides me to the center of the room, a man leading a prisoner to her execution. The weight of their collective attention settles on me like a shroud. My knees tremble, threatening to buckle.Don’t fall. Don’t you dare fall apart now.The floorboards feel unsteady beneath my feet.
Candace stiffens suddenly; the wall behind the bar looks wrong. One of her framed charcoal pieces? Gone. In its place: a postcard of a pineapple wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. Her eyes narrow. Malachi’s expression goes full granite. The war just… escalated.
