Regan lifted her chin.
“She’s in Cabo with me,” she said again. “She is not in that desert. She is not on camera. She is not in police reports. She is not taking the fall because a pack of drunk, drugged-up rich kids decided to tell ghost stories around a fire.”
Edge’s eyes stayed on me.
“My daughter’s not taking the fall for shit,” he said.
It wasn’t a debate.
It was a law being written.
Before anyone could answer, headlights swept across the front windows.
Men outside shouted.
Guns lifted.
Someone called from the gate, “Three kids! They’re asking for Destiny!”
The room erupted.
Edge’s expression went lethal, but not at me this time.
At the world.
“Bring them in.”
Callum caught my eye.
This was not going to improve the night.
The front doors opened a minute later, and three teenagers were shoved inside by two armed prospects who looked like theyweren’t sure whether to pat them down or apologize for scaring them half to death.
The girl in front came in first.
Braided hair. Turquoise jewelry. Face streaked with tears and smoke. She had the look of someone trying very hard not to fall apart because falling apart would waste time.
A boy followed behind her, jaw bruised, shirt torn, one sleeve burned at the cuff. He looked like he had run through hell and was ready to turn around if Destiny was still there.
The third girl came last, small and shaking, clutching a phone in both hands like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes darted around the clubhouse, taking in the cuts, the guns, the women, Edge on the stairs, Regan with blood on her hands.
She whispered, “Oh no.”
The first girl saw Regan.
Then Edge.
Her face crumpled.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re so sorry. We tried to stop her.”
Edge came off the stairs.
The boy immediately stepped in front of both girls.
Terrified, but there.
I respected that.
