Bella. Brooke. Rev. Switch. All of them are staring at me like I might fall apart again if they blink wrong.
“Are you sick?” Brooke asks, already moving closer. “How long have you felt like this?” Before I can answer, she presses her hand to my forehead, checking for a fever, worry etched deep into her face. “We need to get you to the doctor.”
I shake my head immediately. “No.” They all pause. “I need to go home,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I need to take a hot shower and change into clothes. My clothes. Not whatever the hell this is.”
Brooke glances down at the outfit I’m wearing, then murmurs, almost reflexively, “It’s Chanel.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Fuck Chanel. I’m never wearing designer clothes again.”
For a second, everyone just stares at me. Then Rev laughs. Switch shakes his head, smiling. Bella lets out a watery laughthat turns into a full-on grin. Even Brooke cracks, relief bleeding through her worry.
“I’m fine,” I say softly. “I just need rest. And Blade. That’s it.”
Blade’s hand presses a little more firmly against my back, like he heard it as a promise, not a request.
Brooke studies me for another moment, then nods. “Okay. Home first. We’ll figure everything else out after.”
Bella laughs again, happier this time, and wraps her arms around Switch, pressing her face into his chest with happy tears and a smile that looks like it’s been waiting weeks to exist.
THIRTY-FIVE
BLADE
Church is packed.Every officer is at the table, the room heavy with smoke and intent, the kind that settles into your lungs and doesn’t leave. No one’s relaxed. No one’s leaning back. This isn’t the kind of meeting where people talk just to hear themselves or posture for the sake of it.
This is business.
Mason stands at the head of the table, hands flat on the wood, shoulders squared, eyes steady as he scans the room one last time before he speaks.
“We’re going to go over exactly what happened at the docks,” he says.
No anger. No heat. Just control.
He nods at Ghost. “Start.”
Ghost lays it out clean and methodical, no wasted words. Arrival times. Vehicle placements. Russian presence. Cartel presence. How the meet was already in motion before any Iron Reapersever entered the picture. No speculation, just facts, laid bare like a map you can’t unsee once it’s in front of you.
When Ghost finishes, Mason lifts his head slowly.
“They didn’t know the Iron Reapers were watching that exchange,” he says. “They didn’t expect us to be there.”
He pauses, eyes steady, letting that land.
“The meet itself was already over,” Mason continues. “Product changed hands. Money moved. Everyone was walking away clean.”
The room goes silent, the kind of quiet that feels deliberate.
“What happened next,” Mason says evenly, “happened because Blade saw Bri.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t look away. I don’t flinch.
“There was no trap,” Mason goes on. “No ambush meant for us. Blade reacted, and I don’t blame him.” His gaze flicks to me for half a second, then returns to the table. “Any man in this room would’ve done the same.”
A few heads nod. No argument. No hesitation.
“But once shots were fired,” Mason says, “there was no pulling it back.”
Ghost adds, “All confirmed kills were Russian. None escaped the docks.”
