This silence has teeth.
I sit in his lap in the back of the SUV while Joker drives, my head aching in slow, sick pulses that seem to throb behind my eyes. Every bump in the road makes my stomach roll, and every time I sway even slightly, Cobra’s arm tightens around me. Not too much. Never enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me he’s there.
As if I could forget.
The heat of him is everywhere. His chest at my side. His arm around my waist. His hand braced near my ribs, fingers spread wide like he can hold me together through sheer force of will if he just doesn’t let go. I should feel trapped. I don’t. That’s the part that still scares me when I let myself think about it too long.
I feel the anger in him. The tension. The barely leashed violence pulsing beneath his skin with every breath he takes. He’s not calm. He’s not okay. Nothing about him is okay right now. But I’m not afraid of him.
I’m afraid of what happened. I’m afraid of the hand over my mouth, the blade at my throat, the cold voice in my ear telling me not to fight. I’m afraid of how fast it happened and how logical my choice felt right before it turned into the worst possible one.I’m afraid because he was right.
That might be the hardest part.
Not the fall. Not the pain. Not even the knife.
He told me not to leave without him, and I did it anyway. Not because I wanted to be reckless. Not because I didn’t believe him. I thought I was being smart. I thought getting away from the crush of bodies and texting him from outside made sense. It did make sense. Until it didn’t.
My fingers curl weakly in his shirt.
His chin dips slightly, just enough that I know he noticed.
Of course he noticed.
I don’t look up. I can’t. Because if I see his face again, if I see that flash of fear I caught in the alley, I might break. And I don’t think either of us can afford that right now.
The SUV turns into the clubhouse lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The sound usually means safety now, or something close to it, but tonight it feels like returning to a place where consequence is waiting. Lights shine across the lot. Men stand near the entrance. The front door opens before Joker fully stops the vehicle.
Cobra moves immediately. The second the SUV is in park, he shifts me carefully, opening the door and stepping out with me still in his arms like setting me down is not an option he’s willing to consider.
I hear voices.
Logan. Mac. Doc.
Someone curses. Someone asks if I’m conscious.
Cobra answers with a single word. “Yes.” It sounds like it costs him something.
I want to tell him I can walk.I don’t. Mostly because I’m not sure it’s true.
He carries me through the clubhouse, past faces that blur together from pain and exhaustion. I catch Mac’s worried eyes, Brooke’s hand covering her mouth, Kya standing behind Dom with fear tight across her face. Tessa and Mia aren’t here. Hammer took them home. That should make me feel better. It does. A little.
Then Cobra turns down the first-floor hall toward his room. Not the infirmary. His room. No one stops him. Or maybe they know better than to try. His door opens, and the familiar dimness wraps around me. The bed. The dresser. The faint scent of leather and smoke and him. The place that terrified me the first time now feels more familiar than I want to admit. He sets me down on the edge of the bed. Carefully.
So carefully my throat tightens.
His hands linger only long enough to make sure I’m steady, then he pulls away. The absence hits harder than the touch did.
I look up. He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Cobra—”
“Doc’s coming.” That’s it. Low. Flat. He turns. Leaves.
The door doesn’t slam. That might be worse. It closes with a controlled click, and the room goes still around me.
I stare at it. At the door. At the empty space where he was standing. Something inside me sinks. I thought he would stay. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe he needs to talk to Logan. Maybe he needs to check on the prospects, the van, the men who almost took me. Maybe this is just another version of him protecting me, making sure the threat gets handled instead of sitting beside me while the world keeps moving. But it hurts.
More than if he had shouted. More than if he had told me exactly how stupid he thinks I was. Because leaving feels like distance. And after the alley, after seeing his fear, after the way he held me in the SUV like he couldn’t trust the world not to steal me if he loosened his grip, distance feels like punishment. Maybe it is.
I press my fingers lightly against my temple and wince. The room tilts just a little. I breathe through it.
