“Okay, and what’s this?” Ryder points to two long rectangles Wyatt drew behind the hangar.
“Barracks,” he says. “No idea what function they serve. They weren’t used for anything as far as I can tell, and they’re newly constructed. I think they’re empty, but I never had a chance to look into them.”
“So all we have to do is figure a safe way in.” Ryder flattens his hands on the table, fingers spread. “Okay, so here’s how this is going to work. I’ll handle perimeter. Jake’s on tech—locks and cameras. Damian and Wyatt are inside muscle, tactical call if anything smells wrong.”
“And me?” I ask.
He turns, surprised at the question. “You stay here.”
“Excuse me?” My spine goes rigid.
He holds up a hand. “Don’t test me on this.”
But I can’t stop myself. “If you go in without me, you’ll miss things. You—you don’t know that building like I do.” The idea of the four of them inside the O.D. clubhouse is making panic flutter in my throat.
“Wyatt will be there,” Ryder answers.
“But what if—?”
Ryder’s eyes flash as he cuts me off. “You’renotgoing.”
The truth is, I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. Just them, being there, in that dark, twisted world. I suddenly wish we could all just turn and drive back to the cabin.
As if sensing my rising distress, Wyatt lays a hand on my forearm.
“This is what we do, sweetheart,” he says, his low voice strong and reassuring. “We’re not rushing in blind. We’re taking precautions.”
I blink. Somehow the touch of his skin on mine grounds the anxiety spinning out from my center. But not completely.
“It’s not safe,” I murmur.
Ryder exhales through his nose.
“We’ll walk through it tomorrow,” he says to the others—not to me. “That’s enough for tonight.”
Chairs scrape. The meeting is adjourned.
Jake starts stacking plates and empty cans, Damian gathers up the pens and the pizza boxes. Wyatt pushes his chair back with a small wince.
I still sit there thinking about the four of them going into hell without me, when I know that hell like the back of my hand.
“I’m gonna call it,” Wyatt says, bracing a hand on the table as he stands. “My ribs are filing a formal complaint.”
“Good night,” I say softly.
He drops a quick kiss on the top of my head. “Good night, sweetheart.” Then he disappears down the basement stairs.
Ryder lingers in the kitchen, wiping down the table. Jake and Damian wander into the living room. I wish we could just stay here, like this, forever, and forget about the O.D. and the clubhouse and Hargrove.
But the conversation is closed. They won’t leave this end untied. I get up slowly and follow Jake and Damian out to the living room.
On the TV, the opening menu of some shooter game fills the screen. I curl into the corner of the couch while they argue over loadouts and maps, controllers clicking in their hands, the TV throwing shifting blues and reds over their faces.
Eventually, my eyes grow heavier as the game noises blur together—gunfire, explosions, Damian’s triumphant cursing, Jake’s wounded protests. My eyes slip closed, and I flutter them open, over and over, meanwhile getting more and more comfortable in my corner of the couch.
The next thing I’m aware of is warmth—big hands sliding under my knees and behind my back, the world tilting as I’m lifted. I surface just enough to feel my head loll against a familiar chest and the shift of muscles.
I’m dreaming. Floating to safety in arms big enough to contain all of me. Arms strong enough that I can finally let go.
