“They didn’t let women choose,” I said. “Love was sin. It made you weak, they said. But Zach… he made everything feel possible. We were going to run if they wouldn’t let us be together.”
My chest hurt—like old bruises lived between my ribs.
“They caught us meeting in secret. Said he’d corrupted me. That day they dragged him into the circle and…” My voice shook. “They burned him. Alive.”
Chain’s jaw clenched. His eyes darkened—not with judgment, but with something fierce and protective I didn’t know how to accept. “And you think it was him today?” he asked.
“Yes…no.” The word felt like it scraped my throat raw. “He’s dead. It couldn’t be him. It was probably someone who just… looked like him. I was foolish for believing it, but it caught me off guard.”
Chain stepped closer, the space between us warming with his presence. “You gonna be alright?”
It wasn’t just the question, it was the way he said it. Not pity. Not pressure. Real concern. Like my fear mattered. LikeImattered. My breath shook in my chest. Because suddenly I didn’t know which terrified me more—the ghosts clawing their way out of my past… or the way Chain made me want things I’d sworn I would never risk again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BY THE TIMELark came back inside, the colorhad drained from her face, but she held herself tall, shoulders locked tight like she wasn’t about to let the whole damn world see her crack. No tremblin’ hands. No shaky breaths. No hint she’d damn near bolted into traffic chasin’ a ghost that shouldn’t exist.
She didn’t say another word about the man she thought she saw. Didn’t ask for a break. Didn’t even flick a glance my way. Just muttered an apology to Ruby and slid right back into work like slowin’ down might give whatever she was runnin’ from a chance to catch up.
I stayed at the bar, elbows planted, eyes pinned on her, not givin’ a damn who noticed. She carried those trays like every glass on ’em carried weight. Careful. Quiet. Movin’ with thatsharp, exact rhythm folks only learn after life’s tried like hell to break ’em.
That kind of grit… it didn’t show up often. And sure as hell not in women raised in cults.
Gatsby dropped onto the stool beside me with a beer, boots scrapin’ loud. “You look like you swallowed a damn nail.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned. “So what’s her deal?”
“She saw somebody outside,” I said, keepin’ my voice low and steady. “Thought it was someone she used to know.”
Gatsby’s brows went up. “From the compound?”
“Yeah. Name was Zach.” My jaw tightened. “She says he’s dead.”
Gatsby took a long pull from his beer. “Says?”
I didn’t answer. Not when she kept driftin’ toward that damn window. Not when her eyes kept flickin’ over like she couldn’t stop herself. Not when the parking-lot light caught the ends of her hair and turned ’em gold, and she blinked hard, fightin’ off more than just a memory.
Something twisted low in my chest—jagged, unwelcome, solid as a warning.
“Find out if there’s any truth to it,” I said finally. “Talk to Ash. He was one of theirs. Might’ve heard somethin’.”
That wiped the humor clean off Gatsby’s face. His voice dropped. “You think the cult’s sniffing around again?”
“I don’t know.” It came out rough as gravel. “But if they are, I wanna know before they get anywhere near her.”
Gatsby stared at me a beat too long. “You sound awful invested, boss.”
“I’m invested in keepin’ shit from goin’ sideways in my bar,” I shot back, sharper than I meant.
He whistled low. “Right. Just the bar. Sure.”
I cut him a look that’d usually weld a man’s mouth shut. He lifted both hands.
“Alrigth, alright. I’ll ask around. Talk to Ash.”
When he wandered off, the room felt quieter—like half the noise went missin’—leavin’ me with my drink and the truth I wasn’t all that eager to unpack.
