Page 21 of Bram

I never made it past the kitchen.

Bram was already up, standing in the middle of the room, shirtless and loose, the white tape from Doc’s stitches stark on his skin. The wound looked angry, fresh, but he didn’t so much as touch it. He watched me, face carved out of something old and unsmiling. He watched the whole train wreck with the patience of a mountain.

“Damnit, Julie, stop!”

When I tried to pass him, he caught me. Not a gentle touch—his hand closed around my forearm with enough pressure to root me in place. He barely squeezed, but it was a statement. Everything stopped.

He said, “Stop.”

I tried to fight through. He didn’t let go.

“Let me go,” I said, my voice a whisper. “She’s my sister.”

His hand tightened, just a notch. “You’re not going out there like this. What the fuck is going on?”

I locked my knees and yanked, hard enough to pull my wrist free. “What are you going to do, Bram, hold me here? You want to tie me to the railing until I beg?”

He took a step forward, forcing me back against the counter. His face was so close I could see the flecks in the gray, the little scars at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what happened.”

For a second I was going to hit him. Then the anger died, and I just deflated. My whole body wanted to collapse. I let myself slide down the cabinet until my ass hit the tile.

I breathed in, let it out in a hiss. “The Scorpions took my sister. Mom thinks they’re going to use her as leverage. Or worse.”

Bram nodded, like he’d already known. He crouched down, leveled his gaze. “You got an address?”

I shook my head. “All I know is two men, patches, faces she don’t recognize. Emma was at the rec center, tutoring for her summer classes. They must have followed her from the parking lot. Mom didn’t see which way they went, and she’s probably tearing apart the block looking.”

He watched me for a long second. Then he turned, walked to the window, and looked out. It was a move I’d seen before—measured, careful, weighing the threats and allies in every shadow.

I stayed on the floor, staring at my knees, both hands pressed flat to the tiles, as if I could push the house down through the crust of the earth.

“This is not good,” I said. “They’re going to keep fucking with me.”

Bram said, “I’ll call Rusty. Tell him to have Sniper and Trace at the compound, ready in fifteen. Full gear, no questions.”

I blinked. “She’s my sister. This isn’t your fight.”

He smiled, slow and cold. “Everything’s my fight, Julie. You should know that by now.”

I closed my eyes and breathed. I stood up. The anger was back, but it was tired now, like an old dog too exhausted to bark.

Bram called Rusty. He answered on the first ring.

“It’s time,” Bram said. “No more fucking around and waiting.”

He ended the call and then came to me, holding me, letting my head rest against his chest.

I stood, and we walked to the living room, my world collapsing, our worlds colliding.

Bram let go. I dropped onto the edge of the couch, my spine bowing out like a snapped bridge cable. Elbows to knees. Palms flat to my thighs. I was held together by geometry and friction alone.

He moved across the room, slow and deliberate, every step buying him time to think. He didn’t take his eyes off me, not even when he peeled the shirt off the floor and started working his arms into the sleeves. There was blood dried on his skin, little smears on the white bandage, and I realized I could smell it in the air, sharp as salt.

He sat on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a clean two feet of dead space between us. His voice was gentle, but the words were nonnegotiable.

“I can help. Let the club fix this. It’s already in motioning.”

“Bram…”