I told myself this was business. Protocol. Threat assessment. If the Children of the Flame were sniffin’ around, the whole club needed to know.
I was doin’ my job. Same as always.
But then I looked back at her.
Lark laughed at somethin’ Ruby said, soft, real, almost startled out of her. Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to feel somethin’ that light right now.
That raw ache in my chest pulled tight.
Hell.
It hit me square: I wasn’t just pissed somebody might be watchin’ her. I was pissed because once—before the burnin’, before the hurt, before the world went cruel—she’d loved somebody else.
Didn’t matter she’d been young. Didn’t matter they tore him from her. Didn’t matter none of it was on her.
It still landed wrong.
I wasn’t the jealous type. Never had been. Women came and went—good nights, clean exits, no ghosts, no promises.
But Lark…
Lark carved herself into the part of my head I kept locked down tight. Did it quiet, steady, without even tryin’. And the second she saw that shadow outside, somethin’ low in me woke up—protective, possessive, dangerous in a way I didn’t have a damn name for.
I stared into the bottom of my glass, jaw clenched, chest tight, tryin’ like hell to pretend I wasn’t already losin’ a fight I never planned to start… and wasn’t sure I’d be able to win.
***
THE BAR STARTEDthinnin’ out around midnight, bodies driftin’ toward the door in loose groups, the kind of slow Friday wind-down that usually settled me. Not tonight. Not with the way my nerves kept pricklin’ under my skin like somebody’d wired me too damn tight.
I wiped down the counter—again—then tossed the rag aside and stepped out from behind the bar. Needed space. Air. Somethin’ steady to put my boots on.
The music was quiet, lights dimmin’ down to that easy after-hours glow, and the club boys lounged around shootin’ the shit. Normal. Every damn thing looked normal. Which only made the tension in my chest sit heavier.
Devil caught my eye from his table, lifted his chin in question. I shook my head. Not yet. Not without somethin’ real to stand on. A shadow wasn’t evidence, and Lark’s face when she walked back inside—white, still, grounded even while she was shakin’ on the inside—hung in my mind and wouldn’t let go.
I cut through the side hallway, past the office, past the storage closet, and pushed out the back door.
Charleston night air slapped across my face, salt from the harbor, diesel from the street, that half-city hush where traffic hums, but the alleys stay quiet. A delivery truck rolled somewhere a block over. A siren wailed faint in the distance. The security light buzzed overhead, throwin’ a pale wash across the parking lot.
And underneath all that—somethin’ else.
Somethin’ loud.
My boots hit the cracked asphalt as I stepped off the concrete slab. The back lot was empty except for our bikes, a couple trucks, and the dumpsters lined against the brick wall. No movement. No shadows shiftin’. No alley lurkers tryin’ their luck.
Didn’t matter. My gut stayed tight.
I walked the length of the lot anyway, slow and steady, hand driftin’ toward the weight of my pistol out of habit. Nothing jumped out. Nothing stirred. But the hairs on the back of my neck kept standin’ up like they knew somethin’ I didn’t.
Zach. Dead or not… his name had cracked somethin’ open in Lark she’d been fightin’ to bury.
I stopped at the far corner where the lot met the narrow alley. The pavement dipped there—always collected a bit of mud and grit after rain. Something caught my eye.
Not movement.
Just a shape.
I crouched, pickin’ it up between two fingers.
