Across the road, Gage’s head jerks up like he heard my thoughts. His throat works once, twice. The bleach bottle in his grip sloshes as he takes three long strides in my direction, sunlight catching on the red streaks across his cheekbone.
Bishop plants himself between us, shoulders squared. “Get your ass back to bleaching. One minute.”
“She’s fucking hurt, Bishop.” Gage’s voice cracks like a whip.
“I’m fine.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. My shoulder throbs in silent contradiction as I bend for another roll, teeth grinding against the lightning bolt of pain. Three more rolls clatter into the bin. The sun beats down, each second ticking louder in my skull than my own pulse. Sweat trickles down my spine.
“She’s standing, isn’t she?” Bishop doesn’t turn around.
Gage’s jaw muscle jumps beneath stubbled skin. His knuckles whiten around the industrial sprayer as he pivots back to the truck, the bleach misting out in caustic clouds that catch the sunlight.
Lola’s fingers brush mine as we toss the final rolls into the bin. Bishop slams the lid with a finality.
“We’re out,” Bishop calls out.
Rafe materializes in front of me, one hand at my elbow, the other still gripping his gun. “You’re with me, baby.”
“Rafe.” His name escapes before I can catch it.
Something shifts in his eyes—harder, sharper than before. My body betrays me, leaning into his steadiness while my brain screams independence. My pulse quickens as his fingers tighten slightly at my elbow, and I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper as heat crawls up my neck. The contradiction burns:my shoulder screaming in agony while my chest floods with something dangerously close to relief.
Fuck.
FOUR
BELLAMY
The fourth binscrapes across Bishop’s backseat, plastic catching on leather. Rafe’s trunk accepts the fifth with a hollow thud that vibrates through the frame. The sixth bin wedges between Cruz and Lola in the backseat like some makeshift coffin. Their shoulders press against windows.
Cruz flinches when the edge digs into his ribs. His hand flies to his side. “Dorsey’s. How much longer?”
Lola’s knee rises against the door. “Too fucking long.”
I blink down at fingers I can’t feel. My knuckles are geography—islands of raw flesh, valleys of dried blood that crack when I try to make a fist. When I inhale, electricity shoots from shoulder to fingertips. I exhale slowly through my nose, keep my jaw relaxed, my eyes level.
My good hand reaches for the door handle anyway.
Rafe makes a low noise in the back of his throat. His fingers circle my wrist—warm, dry, calloused—and peel mine away one by one. The pressure at my waist shifts me sideways, five distinct points of heat spreading against my ribs through the thin cotton of my shirt.
He opens the driver’s side door. He’s so close that his exhale stirs the hair at my nape, raising goosebumps despite the summer heat. When I step up, his palm finds the small of my back—not pushing, not pulling, just there—a counterbalance that keeps me from swaying when pain flares white-hot down my arm.
Gage sits in the passenger seat, his six-foot-three frame making the space feel smaller, knees nearly touching the dash. The man occupies territory rather than simply taking up space. It’s a sensation amplified threefold with Cruz pressed behind Gage, his presence radiating a quiet intensity.
Then Rafe slides into the driver’s seat beside me, the cabin closing in further, the air thickening with unspoken tension. With the plastic bin wedged in the middle of the backseat, I have no choice but to perch on the center console, my legs draped awkwardly over Gage’s lap, the hard side of the console already digging into my spine.
“Just sit on my lap, Bell,” Gage says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. His hand hovers near my hip, not quite touching.
I shift my weight, trying to find comfort where there isn’t any. “You’re already hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, eyes finding mine. “That console’s going to cut off circulation to your ass in about ten minutes.”
“Hold on, baby,” Rafe murmurs quietly as the car lurches forward.
Loose gravel sprays against the undercarriage like buckshot. My gaze catches on the side mirror—the armored truck shrinking behind us, its rear doors hanging open like a broken jaw.
Rafe turns left onto the road we were originally driving on, and I’m not prepared. I slide across the console, my shouldercolliding with his arm. White-hot lightning forks from my shoulder to my fingertips. My vision sparkles at the edges.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, curling my good hand into a fist, nails cutting half-moons into my palm.
