I absorb this new information, pieces clicking into place. "If they're back, working with the Reapers..." I don't finish the thought. Don't need to.
"Be careful," she says simply. "Whatever you're planning, whatever happens next—just be careful."
I nod, hand on the doorknob. "Get some sleep. And Cara?" I meet her eyes one last time. "Thank you. For telling me everything. For surviving long enough to tell me."
As I close her door behind me, the weight of truth settles heavy across my shoulders. The Kings of Purgatory. A debt that was never mine. A woman who suffered for years because of her connection to me.
Guilt is a luxury I can't afford right now. Not when there are enemies to identify, threats to neutralize. Not when I finally have a target for the rage that's been building since I found her in that container.
But beneath the strategic calculations and promises of vengeance, one thought surfaces, quiet but insistent: she never stopped fighting to come back to me. And I gave up on her.
That's a debt I'm not sure I can ever repay.
Chapter Seven
FALCON
Morning light filters through the blinds, landing in harsh stripes across my face. I've been awake for hours, sleep impossible with my mind racing and shoulder throbbing. Doc's painkillers remain untouched on the nightstand—I need clarity more than comfort right now.
I ease myself up, testing the limits of yesterday's injuries. The bullet graze pulls tight where Cara stitched it, but her work was clean. Professional. Like everything about her now, it's both familiar and foreign—echoes of the woman I knew wrapped in layers of someone I'm still learning.
Last night's revelations play on a loop in my head. Cara wasn't just taken—she was targeted specifically because of me. A debt I supposedly owed, paid with the woman I loved. The Kings of Purgatory, a club I thought eliminated years ago, somehow connected to all of it.
I pull on a fresh t-shirt, wincing as I raise my arms. The bruises from Burns Harbor have deepened overnight, painting my torso in ugly purples and yellows. Battle scars are nothing new, but these carry extra weight—evidence of an ambush that nearly cost brothers their lives. Evidence that we're compromised somehow.
The clubhouse is quieter than usual as I make my way down the hallway. Brothers giving each other space after yesterday's losses, licking wounds both physical and mental. Zip nods solemnly as we pass, his arm in a sling from where shotgun spray caught him. Hustler is stationed by the front door, hand resting on his sidearm—security's been doubled since we got back.
"Any updates on Condor?" I ask, pausing beside him.
"Surgery went well. Doc says he'll keep the leg." Hustler's expression is grim. "Hawk's still unconscious."
I nod, processing. Two of our best fighters out of commission. Not good with the Reapers undoubtedly planning their next move.
"Vulture wants everyone armed at all times," I tell him. "No solo rides until further notice."
"Yes, sir." The prospect straightens slightly, taking the instruction seriously. Good. We need everyone sharp.
I continue toward the kitchen, needing coffee before tackling the day's challenges. The smell of brewing coffee and frying bacon hits me before I round the corner. Familiar voices drift from the room—Tessa's rough laugh, Maggie's quieter tones, and then, unexpectedly, Cara's.
I pause at the threshold, taking in the scene before they notice me. Cara stands at the stove, spatula in hand, directing bacon with practiced movements. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the clean lines of her profile. She says something I can't hear, and Tessa laughs again, a genuine sound rarely heard these days.
For a moment, it's almost normal. Almost like the life we might have had, in another reality where she wasn't taken and I didn't become this harder, darker version of myself.
Maggie spots me first, her expression shifting subtly. "Morning, Falcon."
Cara turns, her eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to the bacon. "Coffee's fresh," she says, tone carefully neutral.
I move to the pot, pouring a mug with my good arm. "Thanks." The word encompasses more than the coffee, though I don't elaborate.
Tessa, never one for subtlety, looks between us with raised eyebrows. "Well, this isn't awkward at all," she mutters, earning an elbow from Maggie.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text from Ice Pick: BREAKTHROUGH. TECH ROOM. NOW.
"Duty calls," I say, lifting the mug in a half-salute before turning to leave.
"Falcon." Cara's voice stops me at the door. I look back to find her holding out a plate with bacon and toast. "You should eat something. With the antibiotics."
The simple act of care catches me off guard. I accept the plate with a nod of thanks, our fingers almost but not quite touching in the exchange.
