That word hangs between us, heavy.
“That word,” he says quietly. “You better be real careful with it.”
Silence stretches. Somewhere behind us, a man laughs too loudly and then stops when he realizes church is still happening.
“You’re my VP,” Legend continues. “The club’s already tense. Royal’s sister reappearing has everybody sideways. Pearly Gates is pushing lines. Bethany, your ol’ lady, your responsibility’s looking for an excuse to go rogue, betray us. Andnow you’re walking around with a girl half your age like you’re auditioning for a midlife crisis.”
“She ain’t a crisis,” I growl.
“She will be if you lose control,” Legend says.
That lands.
Hard.
Legend’s voice lowers, the kind of tone a president uses when he is trying to keep the whole damn house from collapsing.
“You don’t get to be selfish in that patch. Not when you’re second in command.”
I swallow it. All of it. Because he ain’t wrong about the club. He ain’t wrong about the timing.
But he’s wrong about Brittany being some shiny distraction. She ain’t a toy. She ain’t a phase. She ain’t even a girl. She’s a woman who got chewed up by Hell and still stood up to it.
“I hear you,” I say finally.
Legend holds my gaze a second longer, then nods once and turns back toward camp.
Church ain’t long. Search teams split off. Men grab radios and maps scribbled on napkins like that is enough to find a missing girl in a county full of hiding places.
And I do what I have always done when something starts to matter too much.
I shut it down.
I don’t go back to the cabin. Not right away.
I join Rye and Bullet combing the treeline along the north edge of the lake. I keep my answers short. I keep my expression neutral. I keep my hands busy. I pretend my body ain’t still remembering Brittany’s mouth, her nails. The way she said she was choosing me like I was something worth all this trouble.
We find nothing but broken branches, old beer cans and a torn scrap of lace caught on a thorn bush that makes my blood turn cold until Royal confirms it is old. Not connected. Not yet.
Still, it sits in my head like a warning.
When I do finally pass the cabins again, I see her.
Brittany’s outside with Lottie, hair pulled back, wearing one of my shirts, laughing at something Holler said. There’s sunlight framing her like an angel. For a second she looks like she belongs in the world instead of being hunted by it.
She catches my eye. Her smile lifts, quick and hopeful, like she forgot to be guarded.
And I look away.
Like nothing happened. Like last night didn’t crack something open in me that I’ve spent years welding shut.
Her smile falters.
I see it.
I keep walking anyway.
Professional. Guarded. Controlled.
