He steps into the office, already reaching behind his back. “We had someone trying to grab product from the south lockup. Halo was going to take care of it, but I’m sure the guys would love to see their VP in action.”
I hold out my hand and Bricks places a gun in it with ceremonial satisfaction. “There you go. Emotional regulation, Obsidian style.”
The weight of the weapon settles into my palm, something so painfully familiar and simple I don’t have to think. A language I understand.
“Perfect,” I say, checking the chamber. “Please tell me there’s more than one asshole.”
Bricks’ grin widens as he turns toward the hall. “Actually, there’s four.”
We walk out together, his shoulder brushing mine as the noise of the clubhouse rises ahead of us. Men move when they see the gun in my hand and the look on my face. Bricks says something about Halo being disappointed, and I answer without really hearing myself, because part of me is still in the office with Oisín’s question sitting between us.
Tell me what I am to you.
I know four men in the south lockup are about to have a very bad night. I know Canon is going to regret thinking the eastern corridor is soft. I know every piece of the operation that needs to move before dawn.
I still don’t know how to say the one thing that would’ve made Oisín stay.
Oisín
Imakeitasfar as the courtyard before the cold hits hard enough to make me realize I’m shaking. The tremor is small, buried under my skin, easy enough to blame on the night air if anyone asks. No one does. The side door shuts behind me, muffling the clubhouse noise into brick and bass and distant voices, and for a few seconds I let myself stand beneath the yellow security lights with my hands curled at my sides and the ring on my finger catching every slight movement. I came out here because I needed air. Because Saint’s silence was still sitting in my chest like a stone. Because if I stayed in that office one more second, I was either going to let him touch me or beg him not to, and I didn’t know which would hurt worse.
The courtyard is mostly empty, bikes lined beyond the fence, storage shed throwing a hard block of shadow toward the side gate. I kick at the loose gravel, trying to make sense of what’s in my head before deciding to find something to do with my hands.
I turn toward the door, tires softly rolling against the gravel. Confusion morphs into fear as the side van door opens with a soft metal glide. Two men come out of the shadow, one catching me from behind, forearm locking across my chest, while the other drives a fist low into my stomach and folds the air out of me. I try to shout, but a hand clamps over my mouth hard enough that my teeth cut into the inside of my cheek. Blood floods my tongue as I bite down, catching glove instead of skin, and the grip tightens until my jaw screams with pain.
“Quiet,” someone hisses against my ear.
I kick backward and hit a shin. The man behind me curses, his hold slipping just enough for me to drag in half a breath, but another blow lands under my ribs before I can turn that breath into sound. A hood drops over my head, and the world becomes black cloth, stale sweat, and the awful calm of men who aren’t improvising.
They lift me while I’m still fighting, my shoulder slamming into metal as they shove me into the van. Plastic bites around my wrists. A knee pins my thigh and then the door slides shut before the clubhouse can notice I’m gone.
This was too coordinated too swiftly done to be anythingbutplanned.
The van moves before my breath comes back properly. I twist under the weight holding me down, trying to scrape the hood off against my shoulder, and a hand catches my hair through the cloth and slams my head against the floor.
The man above me laughs, and that’s when I realize the voice is familiar, a cadence from the Rogue inner yard, smoke-rough and amused by pain.
“Little Ward always did think someone was coming when he made noise.”
The other men laugh with him. The ride is short, maybe fifteen minutes, though pain stretches every turn until I lose count twice and have to start over. Left. Right. Long straight road where the tires smooth out. Another right, then gravel. When the doors open, cold air rushes under the hood carrying the sour bite of bleach used badly.
Hands drag me out of the vehicle as my ankle twists when my feet hit the ground, but I swallow the sound and let them haul me through a doorway into warmer air, where voices echo off walls too close to be a warehouse and too hard to be a house.
It has to be one of the Rogue places where noise can be called work and blood can be called grease.
The hood comes off, and light stabs my eyes. I blink until the room arranges itself, taking in the rugged open space. Two Rogues are near the door, faces I know without names. Rook is by the workbench, arms crossed over his chest and my father is near the center of the room in a dark shirt and open cut, looking at me like I’m late to a meeting I was always expected to ruin.
Varina is off to the side with one hand braced against the tool bench.
That’s what hurts first. Her eyes move over me, over the hood in one man’s hand, the zip ties around my wrists, and the blood trickling down my chin. For one stupid second, I want her expression to mean something useful. I want the pain on her face to be proof that this has gone too far, that she’ll step forward, that she’ll remember who held her hand after Mom died and who took the blame when she broke Canon’s favorite glass ashtray at fifteen.
She stays where she is.
“Varina,” I say, voice rough.
Her face twists. “Oisín.”
Canon steps between us before she can say more. “You always did say her name like she was the one who could save you.”
