Callum looked at me again.
I tightened one arm around Destiny without meaning to.
“Dylan Degan found her.”
That silence was worse.
I remembered Edge from three years ago. Remembered the way the whole Santa Fe clubhouse went still when he stood. Remembered those cold eyes telling his daughter no while I bled on his floor.
I had respected him then.
I respected him now.
I also understood, with sudden clarity, that if he decided I had crossed a line by touching his daughter, respect would not save me.
Destiny shifted weakly.
“Tell him,” she whispered.
I looked down. “Tell him what?”
Her lashes trembled.
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out so small they didn’t sound like the girl who had supposedly set the desert on fire.
I swallowed hard.
Callum heard her.
So did Edge.
The sound that came through the phone was not anger.
It was worse.
It was a father breaking quietly where no one could see him.
Callum’s voice softened by half an inch. “We’re bringing her to you. Get Doc ready. And Edge?”
“What?”
“You need to make some calls. Fast. Because whatever happened out here, the cops are about to build a story, and your daughter’s name cannot be the first one in it.”
Edge said something to someone in the background. Orders. Sharp. Deadly. Then he came back on.
“Bring her home.”
Home.
Destiny’s fingers loosened in my cut.
Her body went slack enough to scare me.
“Destiny.” I touched her cheek with the backs of my knuckles before I could think better of it. “Stay with me.”
Her eyes opened a sliver.
