Because here I am, safe, inside the compound. While dozens of women and children—and their men—are out there facing horrors I can’t even fully comprehend.
Even thinking of Sarah knots something tight and uneasy in my chest. She’s been missing for two days now. And we know Glory was involved.
Mama Deb and Torch have been locked down in their house on club grounds. Doors secured. Windows watched.
From the outside, everything looks normal. Routine. But underneath, it’s a suffocating undercurrent of terror. A quiet, desperate attempt to keep us contained and untouched.
“Can I ask you something?” Ryder murmurs.
His steps match mine as I wander without direction.
I glance up at him. He looks the way I feel. Like he’s bracing for our world to go up in flames.
I shrug wordlessly.
“Have you forgiven me?”
My steps falter. We both turn to face each other.
“What for?” I ask, my voice coming out rough. But I already know. I just don’t know the answer.
“That night when we…” He trails off, lips pressing into a thin line before he forces himself to continue. “When we all accused you. Decided you were guilty without… without even double—triple checking the facts.” His jaw tightens. “Have you forgiven me for that?”
I frown, words tangling in my throat. “I… you weren’t—” I shake my head slightly. “You returned the money. You… you weren’t the one who just stood there while I—” I cut myself off. The memory hits too sharp. “You weren’t the one who watched me get beaten—”
Ryder exhales softly. But it sounds wrong. Like something inside him just snapped out of place. “Charlotte,” he says slowly, taking a careful step back, like he needs space to even process what I just said. “That… that’s completely backwards. What the—wait.” He frowns, lost in a thought that I can’t reach.
His shoulders go rigid before he sobers up, his expression no longer confused, but focused. Like he’s just realized something he really, really doesn’t like. “I’m probably shooting myself in the foot right now,” he mutters. “Do you believe—actuallybelieve—that I was less at fault because… because I wasn’t physically there? In that cell?”
My thoughts fumble at his words. My mind starts to drift in and out trying to form a coherent answer.
Do I?Why was it that I thought I could feel physically safe around Ryder but not Ruin or Wolf?
“Jesus,” he breathes out. “Listen, I-I was the one who did the initial investigation on yours and Glory’s bank accounts. I was the one who told…” He winces. Pausing for a moment, debating whether he should voice the rest of his rant.
Then he reluctantly pushes through. “Who told Ruin and Wolf that your account had the same deposit pattern as Glory’s. Who took the word of a club whore and didn’t… give you a chance to speak.”
I swallow audibly. Instead of feeling unsafe around him after his words, I’m oddly conflicted.
He just put himself in the same boat as Ruin and Wolf. And a part of me agrees with him.
Why was it that I felt more comfortable around him than the other two? Why did I shun them but invite Ryder into my life?
Was it because I was forced to face him in the immediate aftermath, coordinating to get my money back that they stole? Was it because I could see, hear, and face his guilt?
Why wasn’t I ready to face Wolf’s guilt? Or Ruin’s?
The answer glares at me relentlessly. I accepted Ryder’s guilt and apologies simply because I could see it. But more importantly, his guilt didn’t bother the fragile peace I was building.
Ruin’s did.
Wolf’s did.
They weren’t distant mistakes I could box away—they were present. Heavy and complicated. Demanding something from me I didn’t want to give.
The realization hits me square in the chest.
Forgiveness is not for me. It isn’t something I’ve been chasing.
