I open the door even though I really don’t want to.Saint’s eyes flick past me once, just once, then back to my face.He doesn’t comment.He never does.
“What is it?”I ask.
“Crimson,” he replies.“And two captains from Reno.They’re pushing back.”
Of course they are.I nod once.“I’m coming.”
As we walk away, the heat in my body hasn’t faded.But neither has the clarity.Interruptions aren’t accidents.They’re reminders.
****
Later, much later,I return to my room alone.The compound is loud again with politics, voices raised, lines drawn and redrawn.I strip off my cut and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, breathing through the residual want.
I don’t regret stopping.I regret that stopping will always be necessary.This is the cost of being me, being president.Choosing Raven doesn’t soften the job.It sharpens it.Because now, when I spend capital, when I take hits, when men push back harder than they would have before, it’s not abstract.
It has a face.And tonight, I walked away from it unfinished.That’s not weakness.That’s the price of choosing to do this right.And I’ll pay it again.Every time.
Chapter Six
The Shape of the Crack
Raven
The Sons of Sin don’t argue loudly.
That’s the first thing I notice.They don’t shout.They don’t posture.There’s no chest-beating or public dissent.That kind of noise gets men killed in places like this.What they do instead is worse.
They hesitate.
It’s subtle enough that someone passing through wouldn’t catch it.Orders still get followed.Routes still get run.Guns still get cleaned.But the timing is off.Half a second slower here.A look exchanged there.Questions that didn’t exist a week ago.
Did Savage say now?
Are we sure that’s the priority?
Let’s wait and see.
