I take a step closer, slowly, so I don’t startle her.
“Faith?”
Her head jerks up at the sound of my voice.
Big, startled eyes—glass-blue and red-rimmed. Her face is pale, her lips cracked, cheeks streaked with tears. A bruise half hidden beneath smeared foundation. There’s dirt on her hands, and her trainers are soaked. She's been here for a while.
Every ounce of control I’ve spent years mastering burns away. She’s not a kid anymore. Not even close. But she’s still my sunshine.
This version of her isn’t warm or laughing. She’s cracked around the edges. Fragile in a way that makes my chest burn.
She doesn’t say anything. Just watches me, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll send her away.
I take the last step and kneel in front of her, lowering my voice. “How long you been out here?”
She shrugs, arms tightening around herself. She’s trembling.
Wind whistles through the alley behind the garage, catching on the metal edges of the roof. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks.
“Come inside,” I say, already reaching for the keys in my back pocket. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
She blinks at me. Like the words don’t quite make sense yet.
“I said,” I repeat, softer this time, “Come inside, Sunshine.”
Her bottom lip quivers just before she nods.
I unlock the door and push it open. The familiar scent of old leather, dust, and whiskey greets us both. I flip the light on low. She steps over the threshold without a word, like all the fight left her miles ago.
No questions.
No explanations.
Because I already know.
I can see the bruises. I can smell the fear on her skin.
And I made a promise—to Oak, to her, and to myself—a long time ago when my sister got mixed up in club business. Never again.
Even if I didn’t realise it until just now.
Tonight, I keep it.
3
FAITH
The door closes behind me with a soft click. I’m not sure if it’s relief or nerves that make my knees weak.
Hayden moves past me and flicks on a small lamp near the window. The light is soft, casting shadows across the room, but with Hayden here, I’m not afraid of shadows or ghosts.
The room’s not much—bare walls, old leather armchair, scuffed floors, the scent of motor oil clinging to everything—but it feels safe.
More than anywhere I’ve been in a long time.
He shrugs off his cut and tosses it over the back of a chair. Then he turns to me. “Have you eaten?”
The question catches me off guard. “No,” I whisper. “Not since this morning.”
