Rock slams a fist on the table. “Steel. Focus.”
I drag my eyes away from my pocket and force myself into the moment. But the truth is a knife in my ribs. I can’t focus on the Club while she’s out there alone. And I can’t focus on her while the Club is watching my every move.
The lie between us tightens, but it won’t hold forever.
Church drags on too long. Every voice is a blade scraping along exposed bone.
Every strategy feels too slow. Every brother feels too close. By the time I escape the meeting room, my pulse is pounding behind my eyes.
I walk straight to the back hallway. Straight to my bedroom. Straight to the only place in the clubhouse where I can lock a door and be alone for five goddamn minutes.
The lights flicker overhead as I strip off my cut, shirt, and boots. Blood stains the hem of my thermal. My knuckles look like raw meat. There’s a smear of someone else’s fear on my jaw.
I step into the shower and turn the water as hot as it goes. It scalds instantly. Good, I want it to hurt.
Steam fills the room, swallowing the mirror, the walls, the stench of violence still clinging to my skin.
I lean both hands against the tile and bow my head under the spray. Hot water hits dried blood. It runs pink, then red, then clear. But it doesn’t wash anything off.
Not the rage. Not the guilt. Not the memory of Aria’s wide, terrified eyes. Not the knowledge that the third man in that alley begged, and I didn’t stop.
The sound comes back too easily, the crack of ribs, the wet choke of breath,
my own heartbeat hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m not Tama. I’m not. But today, I was close.
If Aria ever sees that version of me, the version carved by Tama, sharpened by loss, she’ll never look at me the same again.
My chest tightens. My breath catches in my throat. I slam a fist against the tile, the impact sending pain shooting up my arm.
It doesn’t help. Nothing does. Not the heat. Not the water. Not the steam that feels like it’s suffocating me.
I shut the water off and stand there dripping, muscles shaking, breath ragged.
When I reach for my towel, my phone buzzes again across the counter. Her name glows on the cracked screen.
Aria: Are you coming back?
My throat goes tight.
Aria: Just tell me you’re okay. Please.
The “please” hits harder than any punch.
I stare at the phone. At the way her name looks under the fluorescent lights. At the small crack on the glass that lines up perfectly with the muscle jumping in my jaw.
I should answer. I should go to her. I should tell her the truth. But the Club isn’t stupid. Eyes are everywhere. Questions are already forming.
If I go running to her now, if I show even a hint of weakness, she becomes leverage. And I become compromised.
I type nothing. Say nothing. The lie presses hard against my ribs.
Because the truth is, I want to go back to her so badly it hurts.
I want her hands on my face again. I want her voice steadying the violence under my skin. I want the way she whispered “Steel…” like it was both a plea and an anchor.
