At Phantom, whose expression hasn't changed.
At Lee, who is watching him with the steady, patient gaze of a man who rehabilitates animals that have been broken by people exactly like Wade.
The calculation happens behind Lockhart's eyes.
I can see it—the cost-benefit analysis, the risk assessment, the moment where the businessman overtakes the predator and determines that this particular piece of land is no longer worth the price.
"I was only trying to help, Earl." Smooth. Unruffled. The smile back in place, but thinner now, the gloss wearing through to show the steel underneath. "The offer was made in good faith."
"The offer is withdrawn." Lee's voice. Final. "And if anyone wearing your brand comes within a mile of this property, or Earl, or Bex, or the Shotgun Saints compound, this folder goes to every address I just listed. We clear?"
Lockhart holds Lee's gaze.
Something passes between them—not respect, not quite.
Acknowledgment.
"Crystal." He tips his hat. To Lee. To Phantom. Not to me—a final, petty slight that tells me exactly who Wade Lockhart is under the polish. He turns to his men. "We're done here."
The trucks pull out one by one.
The dust rises and settles.
The Double L logos shrink down the road until they're gone.
Earl sits down in his rocker.
Slowly.
The effort of standing that long written in the tremor of his hands and the pallor creeping back into his face. But his eyes are dry and his jaw is set and when he looks at me across the yard, he nods once.
Safe.
The brothers break formation.
Someone laughs—the adrenaline release, the tension snapping into noise and motion.
Phantom claps a brother on the shoulder.
Shadow catches my eye and nods.
Lee walks toward me.
The folder is still in his hand.
He drops it on the hood of my truck as he passes—discarded, unnecessary, the weapon resheathed.
His eyes are on mine and they're not the Road Captain's eyes anymore.
Not cold, not controlled, not strategic.
They're the eyes from the barn at midnight, from the stall wall, from the bed where he held me and asked me to stay.
Open. Unguarded. Terrified in the way that only matters when you have something left to lose.
He stops in front of me, takes my face in both hands.
His palms rough and warm on my jaw, his thumbs tracing the line of my cheekbones, his ring pressing against my skin one more time.
