“Why don’t we head out?” he murmured against my hair. “I’ll have Gatsby close up.”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I’d like that.”
Because I couldn’t stay. Not with Zach’s voice still echoing in my head, not with the weight of the promise I’d just made sitting like a stone in my chest.
As Chain led me toward the front, his arm firm around my shoulders, I leaned into him—solid, unshakable, the only thing that felt real in that moment.
But my mind was still out back, standing under that streetlight. Haunted by the boy who should’ve been dead. And the lie I’d just told the man who felt real when everything else didn’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE ROOM STILLsmelled like her, skin, sweat, and thefaint trace of whatever lotion she used. Something soft, something that didn’t belong in a place built for men who carried knives and ghosts.
Lark was sprawled half across my chest, her breath warm against my skin, hair tangled and damp at the ends. She’d fallen asleep quick, the kind of sleep that comes after burnin’ yourself out from the inside.
I should’ve felt content. Hell, I should’ve felt lucky. But all I could do was stare at the ceiling and feel the unease crawl slow under my ribs.
She’d been quiet on the ride back. Not the kind of quiet that meant peace—the kind that meant distance. The kind that had her starin’ at the highway like it might swallow her whole.
Then the second we hit the bed, that distance turned into fire.
She kissed me like she needed to forget, touched me like she was tryin’ to outrun somethin’ only she could see. And I let her. I always would. But now, in the dark, I could feel the tremor still runnin’ through her.
“Lark,” I murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. Her skin was still warm, heartbeat soft against my chest. “What the hell’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”
No answer, just a small sound in her sleep—half sigh, half whimper.
I stared at the shadows crawlin’ along the walls. My gut twisted, same as it always did when somethin’ wasn’t right. I’d learned to trust that feeling; it’d kept me alive more than once.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t the bar, or the noise, or the new world she was tryin’ to fit into. This was deeper. Something had gotten to her.
And I hated not knowin’ what.
I tightened my arm around her, pullin’ her closer. She made a small sound, settled again.
“Don’t shut me out, Lark,” I whispered, the word rough against the quiet. “Not me.”
Her breath evened, slow and steady, but my mind didn’t ease. I lay there listening to her heartbeat, thinkin’ how easy it’d be for someone to hurt her again, how much I’d burn down to keep that from happenin’.
Whatever she was hidin’—whoever put that look in her eyes tonight—I’d find out. Because I’d seen enough ghosts in my time to know when one had come back to haunt someone I cared about.
And this time, I wasn’t lettin’ the past take what was mine.
***
MORNING CAME INslow and hazy, the kind of gray light that slipped through the blinds like it didn’t want to wake anybody too hard. It laid soft across the clubhouse, dust motes driftin’ lazy in the air. The place was half-awake, someone laughin’ down the hall, dishes clankin’ in the kitchen, the muffled, familiar growl of an engine idlin’ somewhere outside.
Felt like any other mornin’.
Felt like a lie.
Lark sat at the table in one of my shirts, sleeves too long, collar hangin’ loose against her collarbone. One leg was tucked beneath her, the other foot resting on the cold wood floor. Steam curled slow from the mug she held between her hands.
She looked small like that.
Not weak. Not fragile.
Just… far away.
