I wiped my hands on a rag and took a breath. The churning in my stomach wasn’t just about going upstairs to sit with a guy we still didn’t know if we could trust. Robbie had sat with him. Jamie had. Even Enzo. Although, with the way Lyric had flinched and shifted in his sleep—as if he was always calculating an exit, always half a heartbeat from bolting—I’d caught Enzo watching him more than once. Maybe the same suspicion I felt ran through him too. Lyric didn’t give off victim vibes. He exuded survivor energy—the kind that was dangerous. The kind that waited for cracks to open up so he could slip through them. That didn’t make me trust him. If anything, it made me want to keep him closer. But me? I’d been avoiding it since last night, pretending grease andbolts were more important than a human being upstairs recovering from god-knows-what.
But now, it was my turn to watch him.
I grabbed a still-warm cookie, gave the job details to Robbie for him to add to the invoice, told him to add another twenty percent for unspecified extras, then made my way to the stairs, every step feeling heavier than it needed to be.
Time to face what I’d been avoiding.
FIVE
Lyric
Every timeI woke up a little worse—or at least, more drugged up—I said the same thing to whoever would listen.Don’t tell anyone I’m here.The fear was real—bone-deep, blood-deep. Don’t write it down, don’t use your phones, don’t speak my name where it could echo. It will find me.
And every time, someone different was there. I started mixing up their faces—Robbie, Jamie, someone else I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell who I’d pleaded with and who had sat there, nodding, calming me as if I were a scared animal. Where the hell was my backbone?
They all told me the same thing: I was safe. For now. Not forever. Not even tomorrow. Just right now.
None of them were cruel. They helped me, watched over me through the night, brought water, meds, and more blankets. But each of them had questions written all over their faces—Who was I running from? Why did I know Kessler? Was I a threat to them? What had I done?
All the names on my watchlist had been exposed: an ADA, a senator, and federal agents, all blamed on me for the release of information, but I hadn’t fucking done it.
K:What the fuck did you do!
K: Fuck, Lyric. You idiot.
K: You’re burning its world. It’s going to kill you.
I hadto figure out how to convince Jamie that I was the good guy here—anything to stay alive a little longer. This wasn’t a game; this was me throwing myself on their mercy and asking for help, and I had to figure it out fast because, sooner or later, they were going to expect answers.
I’d understood the risk of trying to find Jamie, knowing they could hand me over—although theyseemed to want to talk first. No one mentioned the bounty, but it felt as if it were a matter of time. I could see it in their eyes.
And now it was Rio’s turn to babysit.
Hovering in the doorway and staring right at me. He was big. Tattooed arms, dark eyes, darker hair. His skin was warm-toned, golden in a way that made him look sunbaked, carved from heat and hard labor. He was wearing overalls, pulled to his waist, with the sleeves tied loose around his hips. The red T-shirt he wore clung to his chest, worn soft and thin, with a faded logo. Redcars was where I’d ended up, so I guessed that was what it said.
He was a man who exuded power and could easily have snapped my neck. My hand went to my throat without thinking, fingers brushing the bruises blooming there as ugly, living reminders. When I glanced up, Rio was watching me. There was something in his eyes—something I couldn’t name. Regret? Fear? It passed too quickly for me to pin it down.
He carried two mugs in one hand and a plate stacked high with cookies in the other. He walked over as if nothing about this situation was strange, and without a word, he placed a coffee and a singlecookie on the side table next to me. Then, he stared at me.
“Cream? Sugar?” he asked, abrupt as a slap.
“Black,” I said. Though, whether I could drink it was another question entirely. My skin was itchy, and I felt warm, my head still a mess.
He didn’t answer, but nodded once, as if that were acceptable. Then: “Eat the cookie. Drink the coffee.”
I tried to sit up, pain slicing through me, and my vision whited out, so I gave up, slumping back against the pillows, breath stuttering. I hated it—I couldn’t run if I couldn’t even walk, for fuck’s sake. A quiet curse followed—Rio, low and grumbling—and then, he was there, helping me up. One arm around my back, the other steadying my arm.
He smelled of motor oil and soap. Sweat and leather. Something else beneath it all—anger, maybe. Or adrenaline that never fully left his system. The kind of scent that saidI could hurt you—but for some reason, right now, he didn’t.
He held me steady until I was upright, then gestured at the mug.
“Later,” I managed.
My body felt like a roadmap of pain, and I catalogued each stop. Head—throbbing, maybe a five. Throat—burning, swollen, a nine at least. Ribs—sharp and unforgiving every time I breathed too deep. That was a solid seven. Back—aching from the angle I’d been lying in, a dull, consistent five. Everything else blurred together in a haze of discomfort, making my skin crawl and stretch too tight. This wasn’t like any of the other times I’d been hurt. This was heat and infection.
I didn’t say any of that. Just kept my hand curled near the coffee, pretending as if I might drink it soon. Rio didn’t move, didn’t sit, didn’t speak. Instead, he watched me as if I were a puzzle he didn’t want to solve, but had to anyway.
Eventually, he pulled out the chair in the corner -- the one angled as if it had been dragged there on purpose -- and dropped into it. His body sprawled as if he was a big cat pretending it wasn’t ready to pounce. He stared into his coffee; hands wrapped around the mug as though it were the only warm thing he trusted in the room.
