“Come here,” I say softly, sliding an arm behind her shoulders.
She stiffens for a moment—instinct, I think—then exhales and lets me take her weight. I ease her forward, adjusting the pillows with my free hand, then lower her gently back against them.
“I can do it myself,” she mumbles, but her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt.
“I know you can.”
I smooth the blanket over her, my knuckles brushing her collarbone. This close, I can see the patchy regrowth of hair where they shaved her head, soft and dark against her scalp. The bruises on her face have faded from purple to a sickly yellow-green. The stitches along her hairline are starting to dissolve.
I watch her eyes drift closed, her breathing slow and even. The tension in her shoulders softens, and she shifts a fraction of an inch closer to me, probably without even realizing it.
She’s okay,I tell myself.She’s here. She’s safe. That’s what matters.
But even as I think it, I know it isn’t enough. Safe for now isn’t the same as safe forever. As long as Summit wants her dead, she’s in danger.
Which means Summit has to go.
I stay longer than I should, watching her breathe, my hand still resting on the blanket near her hip. I can’t stop thinking about everything that could have gone different. About what I’d do if it had.
Finally, I force myself to leave, closing the door softly behind me.
6
JOSIE
Iwake to the smell of bacon and the sound of absolute chaos.
For a disorienting moment, I have no idea where I am. The bed is wrong—too soft, too wide—and the ceiling above me is unfamiliar. Then my ribs scream in protest as I try to sit up, and everything comes flooding back.
Hospital. Attack. Stone carrying me out like some kind of leather-clad knight. The clubhouse.
Right. A murder attempt. Sorry, a second murder attempt. How well my life is going.
I lie still for a moment, taking stock. My head still throbs, but the pain is duller now—the concussion settling into a persistent ache rather than the sharp stabbing I’ve battled for a week. My ribs are another story. Every breath feels like someone is pressing a hot iron between my bones.
The chaos, I realize, is coming from somewhere deeper in the clubhouse. Voices—multiple, are overlapping, punctuated bybursts of laughter and what sounds like someone banging pots together.
I check my phone. 9:47 AM. I’ve slept almost eight hours straight, which is either a miracle or a testament to how good Duck’s ill-gotten pain meds are.
Getting out of bed is a project. I move in stages—sitting up, swinging my legs over the edge, waiting for the dizziness to pass, then slowly leveraging myself upright. My left arm is still in a cast, which makes everything twice as hard.
Someone—Maggie, probably—left clothes folded on the dresser. A soft flannel shirt and leggings, along with a note that says“These should fit.”I manage to wrestle myself into them one-handed, which takes longer than I’d like to admit.
My reflection in the mirror across the room is not encouraging. Bruised, pale, hair a disaster, wearing a borrowed t-shirt that’s three sizes too big.
Gorgeous, Bright. Truly stunning.
I find a bathroom, do what I can with cold water and determination, and shuffle down the stairs toward the noise.
I reach the bottom wincing and squinting against the bright light that floods in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. My head throbs in protest, a reminder that my concussion is hanging around like a bad hangover. I raise my good hand to shield my eyes and give myself a moment to adjust.
The clubhouse kitchen is a war zone.
Ginger stands at the stove, wielding a spatula like a weapon while simultaneously directing traffic. Maggie is at the counter chopping vegetables with terrifying efficiency. Kya hascommandeered the coffee maker and appears to be brewing enough caffeine to fuel a small army. Emma sits at the massive wooden table with Poppy, baby Rose balanced on her lap, both of them laughing at something on Poppy’s phone.
The smell of bacon and fresh coffee hits me, and underneath it, the sweeter scent of pancakes, maybe, or cinnamon rolls. The warmth of the kitchen wraps around me, voices and laughter layering over each other in a way that should be overwhelming but somehow isn’t.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, just taking it in.
