She’s alright. At least that part isn’t on me. I’d worried they killed her, or that they had lied about having her.
Colter pulls his phone out, turning away slightly as he makes the call. His voice drops into that clipped, efficient tone I’ve heard before—giving instructions, not asking permission. He says my name once, tells someone I’m conscious, and ends the call without ceremony.
When he turns back, he reaches for my hand again like instinct.
“My arm doesn’t feel so bad,” I tell him. It aches and twinges, but it could be worse.
“That’s because you’re medicated,” he says, attempting a smile. It doesn’t quite stick.
“They did a good job,” I murmur.
That earns a quiet laugh, soft, surprised, like it slipped out without his consent. I cling to the sound.
“Henry kept saying something strange,” I say. “The man you shot. He worked for Laurel all these years. Seducing my mother into drugs.”
“I know,” he whispers sadly. “Ace managed to pull up everything on him. I’m sorry, Peyton.”
I shake my head, refusing to let the tears fall.
“When I was…there,” I swallow and continue. “He kept asking me about the family. About what I knew about it. I remember thinking it was strange. But the more he ranted, the more things began to make sense. All the warnings you gave me. Why John kept insisting on driver’s taking me everywhere. Why the town fears you. Why everyone takes your orders like it’s gospel.”
He studies me for a moment, then reaches for the cup on the table and lifts the straw to my mouth. “Drink.”
I obey, taking slow sips even though my body wants more.
When he sets the cup down, he doesn’t pull away.
His thumb stays hooked around my fingers, grounding, like he’ afraid if he let’s go I’ll slip somewhere he can’t reach. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate. Not awkward. Loaded.
“I put it together,” I say softly. “Or at least…part of it.”
His jaw flexes.
“You shouldn’t have had to,” he replies.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t.” I take a shallow breath, my chest tightening. “I’m not stupid, Colter. I trusted you. Trustedallof you.”
That lands.
I feel in in the way his grip tightens, barely, like he’s restraining something violent and emotional at the same time. His gaze drops to our joined hands, then back to my face.
“I know,” he says. “And that’s on us. On me.”
The admission is quiet. Earnest. No deflection. No justification.
I swallow. “So tell me.”
His eyes darken. Not with anger, but with calculation. With the weight of deciding how much truth I can handle.
“The Shaw family isn’t mafia,” he says carefully. “Not in the way the movies make it look. Be we aren’t clean either.”
I let out a shaky breath. “That’s not comforting.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I didn’t think it would be.”
He shifts closer to the bed, lowering himself so we’re eye level. No towering. No intimidation. Just Colter—raw and stripped down.
“We control territory,” he continues. “We protect what’s ours. We make sure problems don’t grow teeth. And when we do…we handle them quietly.”
