Someone takes the envelope, handles it carefully, treating it like evidence.
Someone else guides me to a chair, wraps a blanket around my shoulders, presses a glass of water into my shaking hands.
And then Garrett is there.
He bursts through the door like a man on fire, his eyes wild, scanning the room until they land on me.
In three strides he's kneeling in front of me, his hands on my face, my shoulders, my stomach—checking, confirming, making sure I'm whole.
"What happened?" His voice is barely controlled. "Bracken said there were photos?—"
"He's watching me." The words come out broken. "Virgil. He's been following me. He got into the compound, Garrett. He took a picture of me through our window."
Garrett goes very still.
I've seen him angry before.
I've seen him rage and curse and put his fist through walls.
But this is different.
This is the cold, quiet fury of a man who has moved past anger into something else entirely.
He turns to Ruger, who's appeared in the doorway. "Church. Now."
"Already calling it." Ruger's face is carved from stone. "Everyone's on their way."
Garrett looks back at me.
His hands are gentle as he cups my face, but I can feel the tremor in his fingers.
The violence he's holding back.
"You're not leaving my sight," he says. "From this moment on. Not for a second. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"This ends. Whatever it takes, however long it takes—this ends."
I nod, unable to speak.
The baby kicks inside me—strong, insistent—and I press my hand to my stomach.
Hold on, I think. Just hold on.
Your daddy's going to keep us safe.
I have to believe that.
I have to believe that love is stronger than fear, that good can triumph over evil, that the life we're building is worth fighting for.
Because the alternative is unthinkable.
The club goes into lockdown.
That's the only word for it.
Within hours of the photos arriving, everything changes.
