Sloane smirks faintly. “Good. ’Cause if you don’t, I’m bringing you back just to kill you myself.”
Laughter ripples around the table, short, bitter, real. It’s the sound of women sharpening their edges.
Allura straightens. “We go full lockdown tonight. French, Raven, you’re on recon. Divine, keep the lines clean. Sloane, prep the safe routes in and out of the city. Calypso, Farris, monitor the farmhouse and stay ready to move the evacuees if shit shifts.”
Carter stands, hands planted on the table, voice low but firm. “I’m going with her.”
Allura arches a brow. “That’s not up for…”
“It is,” he cuts in. “You need a second gun. Someone who knows how they think. Someone who can shoot straight if it goes to hell.”
Allura studies him for a long beat. “You sure you’re not in this for something else, soldier?”
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I am. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m the best shot you’ve got.”
Allura finally nods. “Fine. You’re her shadow. You don’t step out from it, not once.”
He glances at me, eyes dark, intent. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Sloane leans back, a hint of a grin breaking through the steel. “Looks like we’ve got our bait and her bodyguard. Let’s make sure it’s worth the blood.”
Allura lifts her chin. “Then it’s settled. The Royal Harlots are going to war.”
The words settle like a vow. No music. No roar of engines. Just the hum of purpose winding through the room, sharp and holy.
We all rise. Jackets creak. Boots scrape. The scent of leather, gun oil, and determination fills the air. The table between us gleams with reflected firelight from the candles Allura lights one by one. Ritual, remembrance, promise.
She sets the final match down. “For the ones we lost,” she murmurs. “And for the ones they’ll never take.”
Sloane’s hand finds mine under the table, squeezesonce. French’s smirk fades into something fierce. Calypso exhales, a small prayer under her breath. Carter watches me like I’m already halfway gone.
“Tomorrow,” Allura says, voice low and steady, “we take back everything they stole.”
I nod once, leather creaking at my shoulders. “And we make ’em choke on the ashes.”
Outside, the desert hums with heat and the low thrum of waiting engines.
War’s coming. And this time, we don’t brace for fire. We light it.
21
CARTER
The desert hums with heat and waiting. The Royal Harlots are at war. The vote’s been made, the plan is set in motion. Bait duty belongs to Rebel. Shadow duty belongs to me.
By the time the sun burns through the haze, the lot outside the clubhouse looks like a staging ground. Bikes lined in formation, engines ticking, leather gleaming under morning light. The air smells like oil, heat, and gunmetal, a prayer dressed as violence.
Rebel checks her weapons with quiet precision. No wasted movement, no hesitation. Her cut hangs loose over a black tank and jeans, hair braided tight. She looks calm, but I’ve learned that’s what she does when she’s ready to bleed.
Allura’s voice carries over the engines. “We run the route clean. Rebel rides point in the van. Carter follows. Divine’s got eyes on the grid. French and Raven are ghosting the perimeter.”
“Copy that,” Rebel replies.
Sloane smirks. “You don’t get to die today.”
Rebel’s mouth tilts. “Wouldn’t dare.”
I fall in behind her as the gate opens. The sun climbs higher, painting the asphalt gold. The van rolls out first. It’s a matte gray, nondescript, moving target with a heartbeat. I keep a thirty-second gap between us. Close enough to cover, far enough not to eat shrapnel if it blows.
