I’m well aware of my past with club girls. How my life could’ve been different had I not hung out with that bitch, Glory. But Isabelle is far from what these brothers often deem as club objects.
I quirk a brow. “Why? Why would I stop talking to the only other decent person in this godforsaken club?”
His face turns red, huffing incredulously. “Look,” he says, mollifying me. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I figured you’d have no interest in getting close to club whores again. But since you’re getting cozy—”
There it is. Whores.
He said the quiet part out loud.
“It’s not clubgirlsI’m getting close to,” I snap, shaking his hand off me. Anger simmers low as I realize I’ll always be that naive, little Charlotte to these people. The one who can’t form a judgement to save her life. “It’s Bel,” I grit out. “Just Bel. And I like her.”
“Charlotte…” he urges, a hint of plea in his tone. “The night you were in the basement. With Glory…”
God! Why is he bringing that up… again?
My mouth parts. I’m almost certain where he’s going with this.
His face twists with something that looks like shame. “That night, it was Trixie. Juggles. And… Bel. Wolf and Ruin sent Bel down as well to—”
“Beat me up?” A cold, disbelieving weight settles in my chest.
How does he not know? Is that why he’s been so off with Isabelle?
I study his face carefully, searching for even a flicker of recognition—some sign that this is an act. But there’s nothing. Just confusion. Real, unfiltered confusion.
“She left, Ryder,” I finally say, voice firm. “Bel couldn’t do it. She was terrified. Ruin told her to leave, so she left. Never raised a hand.”
He goes completely still. His shoulders lock, spine straightening like he’s bracing for impact. And then, slowly, the color drains from his face. Each blink is heavier than the last, his eyes turning distant, like he’s watching something unfold that I can’t see.
Reliving it. Or… reframing it.
He tries to speak. His jaw shifts, once. Twice. Nothing comes out. His chest starts to move raggedly with each breath.
Whatever is running through his head, it isn’t just about Isabelle not beating me up.
In fact, I don’t think it’s about me at all.
I take a step back. Then another. Instinct kicks in before my mind can catch up. “Ruin told me,” I tell him softly. “I’ll uh… head back inside.”
He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even move.
I don’t look back. Something tells me if I do—if I see whatever’s settled on his face now—I won’t like what it means.
Especially if it means I may have stabbed the only person I consider my friend here, in the back.
I’m not sure I’m ready to face that yet.
THIRTY
Ruin
I can’t fucking focus. And I know it’s my own damn fault for even asking that question last night.
My chest hasn’t eased since Bel’s words lodged themselves in there—sharp, immovable.
All I wanted was to see Charlotte. Just… see her.
I went to her apartment first. Knocked. Waited. Nothing.
