He just walked out into the fading light, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.
Avery stood frozen for a moment.
Then the tears came.
Quiet at first. Then harder. Then unstoppable.
She turned away from the prospects, moving toward the back of the bakery, pressing a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.
Avery sank to the floor behind the counter, shoulders shaking, Aunt Clara’s recipe box clutched to her chest.
She didn’t see the door Noah had fixed or the new lock he’d installed. She didn’t notice how the prospects worked twice as hard after he left.
All she felt was the ache of old wounds ripped open.
All she knew was that Noah Carter was hurting.
And so was she.
Chapter 6
Rook
Rook didn’t remember the ride back.
He remembered the roar of the engine, the vibration in his bones, the cold air slicing across his face. He remembered the burn in his chest, the way Avery’s voice cracked when she said his name, the way her eyes filled with tears she tried to hide.
But the road?
Gone.
He tore into the lot too fast, gravel spitting under his tires. The bike skidded, corrected, then growled into silence. Rook swung off in one sharp motion, boots hitting the ground hard enough to jolt up his spine. His helmet hit the seat with a hollow thud that echoed louder than it should have.
He didn’t head for the clubhouse.
He couldn’t walk into warmth and laughter and normalcy when everything inside him felt like a live wire.
He veered left—toward the garage.
The metal door screeched as he shoved it open. The space was dim, lit by a single overhead bulb that flickered like it was debating giving up. The smell of oil, steel, and old gasoline wrapped around him, familiar and grounding, but not enough. Not tonight.
The garage was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the blood in his ears sound like thunder.
He paced once. Twice. His breath came hard, uneven. His hands shook with a fury he didn’t know how to hold. His chest felt too tight, like something inside him was clawing to get out.
Then he snapped.
Rook slammed his fist into the side of a metal cabinet. The impact rang through the garage—sharp, metallic, echoing off concrete and steel. The cabinet dented slightly, just enough to show he’d hit it, not enough to piss off the brothers later.
Pain shot up his arm, bright and grounding. He welcomed it.
He braced both hands on the cool metal, head bowed, breath ripping in and out of him like he’d run miles instead of riding home.
The garage door creaked again.
Stone stepped inside first, boots steady, shoulders squared, expression carved from granite. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His presence alone was a command.
Fish followed, silent as a shadow. He leaned against a workbench, posture loose but attention razor-sharp.
