“She is not something we circle,” I continue. “She is something we take.”
Vin stiffens. “Now?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “Tomorrow.”
I lean back in my chair, decision settled. “Blade believes his world is stable. That his woman is protected. That belief ends quickly.”
I slide the photo across the desk.
“We do it clean,” I say. “Fast. Controlled. No witnesses who matter.”
Vin studies the image once more. “And after?”
A slow smile curves my mouth.
“After,” I say, “we let him bleed.”
I stand, straightening my sleeves. Outside, sunlight spills across the pavement, bright and ordinary and completely inappropriate.
“Fear is not chaos,” I say quietly. “Fear is architecture.”
Vin nods once.
Tomorrow, the structure collapses.
And Blade will never be the same again.
TWENTY-FOUR
BRI
Brooke decides we need groceries,something normal and boring that might help keep my brain from spiraling into worst-case scenarios, and I go along with it because sitting still feels way too much like drowning. Rev is already leaning against his bike at the end of the driveway when we step outside, dark shades on and arms crossed like he’s auditioning for the role of silent attack dog; he doesn’t say a word, just nods once and swings onto his bike when we head for the car.
Brooke drives while I stare out the window, pretending I’m not checking my phone every few seconds even though Blade still hasn’t texted, not even a simple “you good,” and the pressure in my chest feels like someone shook a bottle full of guilt and fear and now I’m holding it shut with bare hands. Inside the store, Brooke keeps talking about normal stuff just to fill the silence, but I catch maybe half of it because my mind keeps drifting to Blade and everything that could be going wrong that I don’t know about.
We move through the aisles fast and grab the usual things: milk, eggs, pasta, and Brooke even tosses a candy bar into the cart like she thinks sneaking chocolate into the trip will magically fix my mood. It doesn’t, but I appreciate the effort. We pay and step out into the parking lot, and while Brooke loads bags into the trunk, I scan the area more than I probably should, catching Rev a row over pretending to scroll his phone even though his eyes are constantly moving, watching every person, every car.
That’s when the feeling hits, a slow prick at the back of my neck that has nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with instinct, and my spine goes straight as a rod while my pulse starts racing. I look again, more carefully this time, and that’s when I see it: a black SUV with windows tinted so dark it looks like someone painted them, sitting across from us with the engine running and angled just enough that there’s no question it’s watching.
My hand tightens on Brooke’s arm before I’m even aware of reaching for her. “Brooke,” I murmur, “please tell me you see that.” She follows my gaze, her whole body going tight in a way that tells me I’m not overreacting, and she quietly mutters, “Get in the car.”
We don’t run because running starts shit, but we move fast enough that no one would call us calm either, and Rev fires up his bike instantly, pulling up beside us like he’s just merging into traffic even though I can see his hand already hovering near his holster. Brooke pulls out casual, steady hands on the wheel like she hasn’t already mapped five escape routes, and I force myself to breathe while sneaking another look at the side mirror.
The SUV moves too, rolling forward right as we head toward the lot exit, and Brooke clicks her tongue once, just a tiny soundthat says she’s acknowledging the threat without wanting to scare me more than I already am. “Okay,” she says evenly, “we’re going straight home, no stops, no side streets, and Rev is behind us, so we’re fine.”
It does not feel fine.
We make a turn and the SUV makes the exact same one. “That’s one,” I whisper, trying not to sound like I’m counting down to disaster. “I’m counting,” Brooke says, jaw so tight it could crack. Rev stays glued to our bumper at the red light, shoulders stiff and head on a swivel, while I check the mirror again and watch that SUV mirror us perfectly.
“That’s twice,” Brooke mutters under her breath. “Okay. Calling Mason.” She taps the wheel controls and Mason picks up on the first ring, like he already knew this call was coming. “Talk,” he demands. Brooke doesn’t waste a second. “We’re being tailed. Black SUV. No plates.” My stomach drops. No plates means they don’t care who sees them.
Mason’s tone shifts instantly. “Rev, you with them?” Rev’s voice comes over the speakers, calm but tense. “Right behind them.” “Good,” Mason replies. “Both of you go straight to Brooke’s. Do not stop. Brothers are on their way.” “Yes, Pres,” Brooke answers, eyes locked on the road.
I dig my fingers into the seatbelt because my heartbeat won’t slow down and that SUV is still there, still keeping the exact same distance like they’ve practiced this. Rev gives a small hand signal out his window, two fingers down low where only we can see. He’s confirmed it’s bad.
I try to breathe quietly, pretend I’m not terrified, but my mind keeps screaming that this is happening because of me, becauseI couldn’t listen, because I decided tacos were more important than my own damn safety. Brooke keeps telling me we’re almost home and everything is fine, but the words don’t stick because nothing about this feels okay.
Finally we turn onto her street and the SUV keeps going, drifting past us like the whole point was to be seen and felt, not caught. Somehow that feels worse. Brooke pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, and Rev swings his bike in right behind, scanning the street before we even unbuckle.
