"You're the one who tore into that guy with the bat?" he asked, nodding toward the man I'd attacked. The attacker was now conscious, but moaning in pain as someone zip-tied his hands. His jacket was in shreds, blood seeping through multiple deep scratches across his torso.
I looked away, not confirming or denying anything.
"Saved my ass," Rooster said, wincing as Henry began stitching his wound. "Liam spotted them first, tried to keep me out of the fight, then went full protective mode when I got hit."
Butch studied me with newfound interest. I didn't like it. Being noticed was dangerous. Being considered valuable was even worse—it meant people wanted something from you.
"What exactly happened?" Butch asked Rooster. "Before the fight."
I was grateful when Rooster took over the explanation. My throat felt raw from the few words I'd spoken earlier, and explaining anything fully would have been beyond me.
"Liam and I were at the picnic table when he spotted two men sneaking into the yard," Rooster said, remaining impressively still as Henry worked on his wound. "We were able to hide before they spotted us. That's when I texted you. Liam noticedthe second group coming through the gate before anyone else did."
"Good eyes," Butch commented, glancing at me again.
I ducked my head, avoiding his gaze.
"Better than good," Rooster said. "Kid's got instincts. Knew something was wrong before I did."
I shifted uncomfortably under the praise. Years of living in shadows had taught me to recognize danger, that's all. There was nothing special about wanting to stay alive.
Butch nodded thoughtfully, then turned to two of his men—the massive one called Bear and another with long dark hair pulled into a ponytail.
"Bear, Gunner, take our new friends to the basement. I want to know who sent them and why."
The men nodded, already moving to collect the captive intruders. I didn't envy those men what was coming. The basement clearly wasn't a place for friendly conversations.
Butch turned back to us. "You should stay inside tonight," he said, addressing me directly. "Whoever sent these men might send more. You're safer with us."
My heart rate spiked at the suggestion. Indoors meant trapped. Indoors meant surrounded by people I didn't know or trust. Indoors meant no easy escape routes when things inevitably went wrong.
But then Rooster tried to stand and immediately swayed, his face paling beneath his beard. Henry steadied him with a muttered curse about stubborn patients. The sight of Rooster's vulnerability made something twist painfully in my chest.
He needed help. He needed looking after.
Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed Rooster's hand and tugged him gently toward the clubhouse. If he was staying inside, then I would too—at least until I was sure he would be okay.
"I think that's a yes," Rooster said to Butch, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth despite the pain evident in his eyes.
I led him toward the kitchen door, the one place in the clubhouse that felt remotely safe to me. My heart hammered against my ribs as we approached the building, every instinct screaming that I was making a mistake.
But when Rooster squeezed my hand gently, something quieted inside me. Just for tonight, I told myself. Just until his head was better. I had a debt to repay, after all. Food for protection—it seemed like a fair exchange.
That's what I told myself, anyway, as I stepped willingly into the building I'd spent months circling from a safe distance.
I pushed Rooster into the nearest chair the moment we entered the kitchen, my movements quick and decisive. This space, at least, felt vaguely familiar from watching through windows—the gleaming countertops, the industrial-sized stove where he'd prepared the food that had kept me alive these past months.
I knew this room, even if I'd never been inside it, and that small comfort steeled my nerves as I turned to examine Rooster's injury in the bright overhead light.
The gash looked worse under the fluorescents—an angry red line disappearing into his hairline, already swelling into an impressive lump. Blood had dried in his beard, turning the vibrant red a rusty brown.
Despite the doctor's neat stitches, the area around the wound was already darkening into what would become a spectacular bruise.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Rooster said, trying to sound reassuring.
I shot him a disbelieving look and turned to search the cabinets. I needed ice for the swelling. A bag to put it in. A towelto wrap around it. Simple first aid knowledge I'd picked up from necessity over the years.
The kitchen was immaculately organized, each cabinet containing exactly what its label promised. Plates. Glasses. Mixing bowls. Baking supplies. I found a stack of clean dish towels in a drawer beside the sink and grabbed one, then located plastic bags in another drawer.
