There's a heaviness to him that goes beyond physical exhaustion. Something happened out there, something he needs to tell me.
"Tommy?" I ask quietly.
Rage holds my gaze steadily. "Dead. Vulture shot him."
"Vulture killed him?" I repeat, trying to process this unexpected twist.
"Tommy got captured. Vulture decided he was a liability." Rage's jaw tightens. "Vulture got away. Injured, but alive. He won't be back tonight, but this isn't over."
I nod, absorbing this. Tommy is gone. The man who hurt me, controlled me, terrorized me—gone. Yet the architect of theviolence, the man who ordered the attack, still lives. The threat diminished but not eliminated.
"What happens now?" I ask.
Before Rage can answer, King's voice cuts through the corridor.
"Everyone in the main hall. The Eagles are gone, compound secure. Time to regroup."
Rage offers his hand to me, a simple gesture that somehow means more than it should. "You up for this? It's okay if you want to rest instead."
I place my hand in his, drawing strength from his solid presence. "I want to be there."
We follow the others through the battered clubhouse, stepping carefully around debris and bloodstains. The damage is extensive. Bullet holes pepper the walls, furniture lies splintered and overturned, windows shattered. But the structure itself stands firm, much like the men who defended it.
The main hall, where much of the fighting took place, has been hastily cleared: broken furniture pushed to the sides, glass swept into piles. The bodies are gone, though dark stains on the floor mark where they fell. Someone has set up an impromptu bar on a pool table that survived the battle, bottles of liquor lined up like soldiers.
Club members filter in, some sporting bandages or makeshift slings, all bearing the thousand-yard stare of men who've faced death and emerged on the other side. But as they gather, that combat-hardened tension begins to ease, replaced by the giddy relief of survivors.
Torch is the first to break the solemnity, raising a bottle of whiskey. "To still being above ground!"
A ragged cheer goes up, and suddenly the room transforms. Brothers embrace, slapping backs and recounting moments from the fight. Steel cranks up the stereo system, somehow untouched by the destruction, and music fills the battered space. Two prospects—Chaos and Rookie, I've learned their names now—take up positions by the entrances, keeping watch while the celebration begins.
Rage leads me to a relatively intact couch and gestures for me to sit. "Rest your ribs," he says. "I'll get you a drink."
As he moves toward the makeshift bar, Luna approaches, settling beside me with a gentle smile. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm not sure," I admit. "It doesn't seem real yet. Any of it."
She nods understanding. "It won't, for a while. Your body's still in survival mode. The emotions will hit later."
"Tommy's dead," I say, testing how the words feel in my mouth.
"I heard," Luna says quietly. "Does it help? Knowing he can't hurt you anymore?"
I consider the question seriously. "I don't know. It should, right? I should feel relieved, or... something. But I just feel empty."
"That's normal," she assures me. "When you've lived in fear for so long, safety feels strange. Almost wrong, like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
She understands. Of course she does.
"Does it get better?" I ask.
Her eyes soften. "Yes. Not all at once, and not in a straight line. But yes, it gets better."
Rage returns with two glasses, handing one to me before nodding respectfully to Luna. "King's looking for you," he tells her. "By the bar."
Luna squeezes my hand before rising. "Remember what I said. And Claire... you're welcome to stay as long as you need. This doesn't change our promise to help you."
After she leaves, Rage takes her place beside me, his large frame dwarfing the couch. He lifts his glass. "To survival."
