"Done." King nods to Lock. "Get on it."
"And then?" Diesel asks.
Ghost's smile is cold. "Then I'm going to have a conversation with him. A private one."
The room mobilises around him. Phone calls, brothers heading out to talk to contacts, favours being called in. And I stand in the middle of it, still shaking, still feeling Harris's fingers on my wrist.
He protected me for three years. I trusted him with my life.
And the whole time, he was watching me. Studying me. Falling in love with a version of me that only existed in his head.
Ghost appears beside me. He doesn't touch me — I don't think he trusts himself to be gentle right now — but he stands close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"This ends tonight," he says quietly. "I promise you. He will never touch you again."
I believe him.
Completely.
CHAPTER 6
GHOST
The venue is too big.
That's my first thought when we pull up to the Arizona State Fairgrounds — three thousand seats, multiple entry points, backstage access spread across half a dozen corridors. India's rescheduled show. The one her label insisted couldn't be moved, not without serious financial consequences.
I fucking hate it.
But she wanted this. Needed it. Two weeks of hiding at the clubhouse, and I could see her starting to fray at the edges. Music is the thing that keeps her sane — she told me that the second night, curled up against me in bed, voice soft in the dark. Performing isn't just her job. It's the only place where everything makes sense.
So we're doing this. On my terms.
Lock is running point on the main entrance. Diesel has the east side. Rogue's handling backstage. King coordinated with the venue's security team — Sons of Ruin personnel mixed in with their people, our eyes everywhere they aren't looking.
And Rev.
I find him near the loading dock, watching the crowd.
"Anything?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Clean so far. But there's a lot of ground to cover."
Rev's solid. Quiet, good with his hands, and he pays attention. Right now I need every set of eyes I can get.
"Stay mobile," I tell him. "If Harris is here, he won't come through the front. He'll find a gap."
"Got it."
I leave him to it and make my way backstage.
India's in her dressing room. When I push open the door, she's sitting at the mirror, a makeup artist working on her face while her assistant runs through the set list. Two other people hover — label reps, probably, or tour management. The kind of people who see her as a product instead of a person.
She catches my eye in the mirror and something in her expression softens.
"Give us a minute," she says.
The room clears. Fast. I don't know if that's because of her or because of me, and I don't care.
