Something shifts behind me immediately, the quiet tension in the room snapping tighter. “Bullshit,” he mutters.
I swallow slowly. “You’ve got things to do,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm and steady. “People to deal with.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
Neither of us moves. The quiet stretches again until it feels like the whole house is holding its breath.
“You really think that’s all this was?” he asks after a moment.
My throat tightens painfully, but I keep my gaze locked on the barn. “I think you came out here to deal with a problem,” I say slowly. “And now you’re leaving.”
Behind me I hear the bag shift slightly, like his grip tightened around the handle. “That’s what you think.”
“That’s what makes sense.”
The silence behind me turns heavy again, thick enough that I can feel the weight of his stare even without looking. “You don’t get to pretend this week didn’t mean anything,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens hard enough that I have to take a slow breath before answering. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“Then turn around.”
I shake my head once. “No.”
The pause that follows is longer this time. Long enough that I start to think he might actually walk out without saying anything else. When he finally speaks again, his voice carries a low edge of frustration that settles deep in my stomach. “You’re really gonna stand there and look out the damn window while I walk out that door?”
I draw in a slow breath and let it out again. “That’s the plan.”
Behind me something shifts, the quiet rustle of his bag and the faint creak of leather breaking the stillness in the kitchen. For a second I think I hear his boots move toward the door, and the sound sends a sharp ache through my chest that I wasn’t prepared for. Every instinct inside me screams to turn around, to look at him one more time before he walks out of this house and out of whatever this week between us has been. I want to see his face. I want to stop him. I want to say the words I forced myself not to say earlier. Instead, I keep my eyes fixed stubbornly on the barn outside the window, my fingers tightening around the mug in my hands, because the truth ispainfully simple. If I turn around now, if I let myself see him standing there with that bag in his hand, I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to let him leave.
SEVENTEEN
GHOST
By the timethe Iron Reapers clubhouse comes into view at the end of the long gravel drive, my mood hasn’t improved even a little. The ride should’ve helped. Usually the road clears my head, the vibration of the bike and the wind tearing past my shoulders burning off whatever noise is rattling around upstairs. Today it just gave my brain more space to replay the same damn scene over and over again.
Rae standing in that kitchen with her back to me. Refusing to turn around to look at me, like the last week meant something real.
My jaw tightens as I kill the engine and swing off the bike. Gravel crunches under my boots as I head toward the clubhouse, the familiar brick building sitting solid and worn like it always has. A couple prospects are hauling crates out of a truck near the garage, both of them glancing up when they hear my boots hit the ground.
“Morning, Ghost,” one of them says.
I grunt something that might pass for acknowledgment and keep moving.
The second I step inside, the smell hits me. Leather, beer soaked into old wood, motor oil and cigarette smoke clinging to the walls like it’s been part of the place since the first brick went down. The main room is already half alive. A couple brothers sit at the bar with coffee while the television murmurs quietly in the corner.
Rev spots me first.
He leans back in his chair and studies my face for about two seconds before a slow grin spreads across his.
“Well hell,” he mutters loudly enough for the room to hear. “That look means somebody’s dying today.”
A couple heads turn.
I ignore them and head toward the long table near the back where Riot is already set up.
Roman Kovacs sits with a laptop open in front of him, dark hair pulled back while his fingers move quickly across the keyboard. He doesn’t look up when I drop into the chair across from him.
“You’re late,” he says calmly.
