“I know.”
“Now the club has to decide if they’re following him, or the version of him they were comfortable with.”
I swallow.“I didn’t ask him to do that.”
She reaches out and squeezes my wrist once.“He didn’t ask your permission either.”
That hits home harder than anything else today.I leave the kitchen and head toward the back hall, needing space, needing air.Halfway there, Saint intercepts me.
“Raven.”
I stop.“Saint.”
He studies me the way he always has, like a chessboard instead of a person.“Are you seeing it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” he agrees.“But it means you won’t make it worse.”
I cross my arms.“Do you think I could?”
“You could fix it,” he says.“That’s what worries me.”
I stare at him.“Do you think I’m manipulating this?”I ask the question without emotion.
“I think you’re capable,” he replies calmly.“And I think you’re choosing not to.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“No,” he agrees.“It’s restraint.”He hesitates, then adds, “Savage doesn’t know how to navigate this version of power.”
“Neither do I.”
Saint nods once.“You’ll need to learn together then.And you’d better not disappear again.”
I almost laugh.“I wasn’t planning to.”
That night, the compound feels wound too tight.I sit on the roof with my legs dangling over the edge, Vegas stretching out below like a mouth full of teeth.
Savage finds me there eventually.He doesn’t announce himself, but he never does, he doesn’t need to.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“So are you.”
He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.He smells like oil and smoke and something restrained.
“They’re hesitating,” I say without preamble.
“Yes.”
“Crimson?”
“Yes.”
