Page 43 of Freedom’s Inferno

I turned away before I could unpack it.

The floor creaked behind me.

I turned as Charlie came down the stairs, stuffing a small stack of clothes into his backpack. He moved slower than usual, favoring his shoulder, though he pretended not to notice the way his hand trembled when he zipped the bag. He shoved a worn book in last, the cover soft and pliant from years of use.

“You should let me look at that,” I said, nodding toward his shoulder.

He paused mid-motion, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “At what?”

“The road rash,” I said. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” I stepped closer before I could stop myself, lowering my voice. “You need to clean it before it gets infected.”

He looked at me then, really looked, and for a heartbeat, something dark flickered in his eyes.

“Charlie,” I said, softer this time, trying to bridge the gap between concern and command.

That was the wrong word.

He straightened to his full height, closing the distance between us until only inches remained. “Charlie was my father,” he said, voice low, the edge of it scraping something raw inside me. “I’m not him. You can call me Chuck, Charles, or, if you insist, Mr. Sterling.”

The air between us shifted, heavy and charged. His breath ghosted over my lips, hot and smelling of mint. My pulse betrayed me, hammering against my ribs as though my body couldn’t decide whether to fight or yield. Every nerve in me lit up, whispering the same truth I didn’t dare name. I wanted him. God help me, I wanted him, but just as I leaned in, just as my breath caught, he pulled away.

The space he left behind was colder than it should have been.

“Come on,” he said, swinging the pack over his shoulder. “We’re checking into a hotel. You can lecture me about wound care later.”

He brushed past me, opened the door, and stepped out into the pouring rain. I lingered a second longer, staring at the photograph above the fireplace—Richard and Charlie frozen in that old lie of brotherhood—then followed him out.

The rain plastered my hair to my face before I’d made it two steps off the porch. I held my arms over my head, uselessly, and started toward the Lexus‒

And stopped.

Headlights cut through the tree line at the end of the driveway. My stomach dropped, one foot pulling back toward the house. A black Range Rover rolled to a stop behind Charlie’s bike, engine idling, wipers cutting back and forth across the glass. The windows were tinted too dark to see through.

My hand found Charlie’s arm, gaze slicing to him.

The easy expression on his face didn’t match the alarm stabbing through my chest.

A black umbrella appeared from the driver’s door, snapping open before a single drop could land on the man beneath it. He stepped out in a charcoal suit, one hand smoothing his lapel in a single, precise motion. The man was younger than Charlie and me by several years, but those pale green eyes held a storm that rivaled the one we were standing in.

“Who is that?” I hissed, my grip on Charlie’s arm tightening.

Charlie’s hand covered mine. “I called him. Wait in the car.”

My mouth fell open, ready to protest.

“Lana,” he said, my name landing like a door closing.

My gaze flicked to the man with the umbrella, then back to Charlie. I turned on my heel and stomped to the car, sweater drenched and clinging to my skin. The passenger door slammed, echoing through the pines.

Through the rain soaked windshield, Charlie crossed the gravel toward the man in the suit, the two of them meeting somewhere in the middle of the downpour, Charlie crowding close enough to steal some of the umbrella’s cover.

I leaned forward, eyes straining, trying to catch the shape of the words on their lips, but the rain turned them into gray and black blobs.

Chapter 18