That finally makes his eyes flash with more than guilt or pain. It mirrors what I’m feeling, and I hate that his eyes look so similar to mine right now.
He bends sideways, yanking his drawer open angrily. Then he fishes something out and drops it on the desk between us.
I stare at it, my expression sobering. Blanking almost. Then I stare some more because—What the fuck?
I ignore Ruin when he takes another massive step back, almost coming up beside Ryder.
My gaze is locked to the letter I wrote before disappearing from their lives. The words glaring at me as though written by someone I don’t recognize anymore.
‘Wolf, I’m sorry for being less of a sister and more of a problem you had to manage.’
God. I was never a problem or a burden. There was rarely a time when Wolf had to manage or fix the fuck-ups that I created under Glory’s influence.
‘I know I made things harder for you when you were already trying to lead the club.’
I cringe at the naive Charlotte who wrote this. The one who blamed herself for the consequences when it wasn’t hers to carry.
It’s now my turn to flush red with embarrassment.
“You’re not the Charlotte who wrote that anymore.”
I flinch at Wolf’s low rumble.
“Over two years ago.” He sighs, setting both his hands on his desk. “And I’m not the same person who wrote that letter either.”
There’s an edge to his voice I can’t understand. But his words still land like a blow to my chest.
Because they ring true, Charlotte.
Gah! Fuck.
“T-That doesn’t mean…” I say uselessly. All the righteous fury I came in here with is draining out of me every second.
“Listen, I…” he starts, but then pinches the bridge of his nose. Almost in exasperation.
Suddenly, a horrifying realization dawns on me—I barged in here uninvited. Probably interrupting something incredibly important.
I nervously look around, expecting Ruin and Ryder to shake their heads at my childish behavior. But they stay silent, looking between Wolf and me intently.
“Shit, I… I’ll go. You have more important th—”
“Christ, Charlotte,” Wolf groans. “I’ve been trying to talk to you—properly talk—for weeks now. And yeah, you comin’ in just now put me on the spot but… God. Give the man a second, will ya?”
He paces a few steps away from his desk, then comes back to the exact same spot, stiff as a board. His gaze slowly turns wretched, and I find myself bracing for whatever he’ll say next.
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he croaks. “Keep my damn club standing—all while the fucking Romanian mafia has me on speed dial.” His voice pitches higher. “T-The love of my fucking l-life has either been dead or dying for the last seven years—and I didn’t even know! Sopleasejust… give me a second.”
For all the volume in the middle of his rant, he still ends it on a feeble, defeated whisper.
Love of his life. Leila?
“Charlotte, I… I’ll show you the brother that I am now, okay? I promise.” His gaze turns pleading. “But I can’t do that when—if—one or both of us are six feet under.”
A tense silence settles over the room.
I know what he’s saying. I understand it completely. But the anger I’ve been carrying still sits heavy in my chest, forced to settle again—deep and aching.
I nod slowly, my head pounding with words I never voiced. Words that suddenly feel painfully petulant for a moment like this. Not because they’re selfish, but because they gloss over the very real danger we’re in.
