“Fuck you and your word games, Sinclair,” I groaned, shaking my head, anger and confusion colliding in my chest. “I’m tired, and I want to go to bed. Have you learned any more news? Are my brother and Sypher alive?”
“I’m still waiting.” His answer was soft, almost apologetic, as if he understood that tonight, no truth could offer comfort—not yet.
“Fine,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck, trying to ground myself in something familiar as the world shifted beneath my feet. “Wake me when you know something.”
Heading to my room, a weight pressed down on me as I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion and disbelief tangling together until I could barely breathe. For all of Sinclair’s confessions, the answers only led to more questions, each heavier than the last. Was this what truth was supposed to feel like—a window thrown open in a storm, the wind too fierce to let me stand upright? I didn’t know if I could forgive him, or myself, for the years lost to secrets. All I knew was that nothing—absolutely nothing—would ever be the same.
Days crept by since the Death Dogs stormed the Silver Shadows’ clubhouse. Tension clung to every corner. Dante paced, jaw clenched, checking his phone again and again, only to hear Deputy Wyatt’s voicemail prompt—never his voice. Frustration flickered in Sinclair’s eyes each time he reached out for information and learned nothing. Dante and Roxy, both worried about the young man who was their world, had no luck contacting Sypher. Roxy tapped nervously at her leg, whileDante stared at the blank screen, willing a message to appear. Even Melissa had reached out to a handful of friends, her fingers trembling as she typed, but they were all in the same boat—isolated and waiting for news.
No one knew anything. The silence was suffocating. Sinclair’s calls went unanswered—by everyone.
The anxiety grew worse with each passing hour. Sinclair couldn’t even get ahold of Mischief, the one person who always answered, no matter what. He tapped the phone against his palm, lips pressed tight, feeling a cold unease sink deeper into his chest. For the first time, even Mischief’s line was dead.
With everyone waiting on pins and needles, I forced myself to set aside my own problems. The uncertainty of the future gnawed at my insides—every unanswered call, every minute of silence, made my chest tighter with fear for my brother and Sypher. I hated how helpless I felt watching Melissa unravel, knowing that no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t shield her from pain or offer her more than hollow reassurances. The guilt pressed in, suffocating and unwelcome.
Like everyone else in the house, I kept myself busy, reaching out to my contacts, desperate for any word. Anything to pass the time. Every time I came up empty, frustration and dread churned together until I could barely think straight.
Sinclair’s office was heavy with the scent of old paper and the faint tang of sea salt—the window cracked open to the restless hush of the waves outside. My nerves jangled as I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Melissa appeared at the door with Danika. She lingered in the threshold, her voice trembling as she asked, “Have you heard anything yet?”
Sinclair looked up at her, sorrow etched deep in his features. “No, my dear,” he said, his apology gentle and genuine. “As soon as I hear anything, you will be the first to know. I promise.”
Melissa nodded; her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying. “Dani and I are going to the beach if you need me.” Her voice was barely above a whisper; the words almost lost in the quiet.
Neither of us said anything as Melissa ushered Danika away, her hand trembling as she closed the door behind them. The only sound was the distant crash of waves, which made the silence in the office feel even heavier.
“She’s getting worse,” I whispered, my voice raw with worry. I couldn’t stop picturing her sitting alone, unraveling thread by thread under the strain of waiting. “Roxy told me she refuses to eat and has barely slept.” The thought sent another ripple of guilt through me; I should do more, but I was quickly realizing how powerless I really was.
Sinclair sighed, rubbing his hands down his tired face. “I know,” he replied quietly. “I’ve been monitoring her, too.” His voice held a weary resignation, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights and no answers.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Call O’Malley,” I suggested, my words more desperate plea than calm advice. Braesal O’Malley, head of the Irish Mob in Boston, had been in the area before the attack—maybe he knew something, anything, that could break this nightmare of silence.
Sinclair barely looked at me as he responded, his voice heavy, “I did this morning. It’s not good.”
My stomach clenched. “What does that mean?” I asked, my voice shaking now.
Sinclair leveled his gaze at me, his eyes full of grim understanding. “There are several wounded and deaths on both sides.”
I tried to steady myself, forcing the panic back down. “Did he say who?”
“No,” Sinclair replied, voice flat. “Only that the clubhouse resembled a war zone, and that it doesn’t look good. The sheriff, King, and Reaper are holding off notifying anyone until the identities can be verified.”
“How fucking hard is it for King and Reaper to know if my brother and Sypher survived?” I shouted, my voice echoing in the cramped office just as Roxy burst into the room, breathless and wide-eyed.
“A cab is approaching!” she announced, her words tumbling over each other.
The tension snapped. All of us leaped from our seats, chasing after Dante as he darted for the front door. The door banged open, letting in a rush of salty wind and the distant call of gulls. We spilled out onto the porch just as the cab stopped in front of the beach house, and my heart slammed against my ribs when I saw Sypher climb out of the back seat—alive.
Chapter Fifteen
Melissa
The salt spray brushed gently against my cheeks, bringing with it the briny tang of the sea and a sense of deep familiarity. Each touch of the mist was soothing, grounding me in the present moment as Danika’s joyous squeals rang out, rising above the steady rhythm of the waves rolling onto the shore. She darted along the wet sand, her small legs moving with exuberant energy as she chased after the retreating tide, her laughter weaving through the air like a fragile, fleeting melody that seemed almost too beautiful for the vast, endless ocean. Watching her in that moment, I felt an overwhelming surge of joy—fierce and wild—growing in my chest, a sensation as powerful and uncontainable as the churning sea itself.
It was then that my gaze landed on them.
Four distinct figures emerged, outlined sharply against the backdrop of the setting sun. Every step they took seemed deliberate, their presence somehow incongruous with the peaceful shoreline. Sinclair, Dante, Rowen, and Sypher advanced together, their silhouettes carrying an undeniable sense of purpose.
A sudden tightness gripped my chest, and my breath faltered as unease crept in.
