Chapter 30
Thirty-two minutes.
I keep one hand on the wheel and one eye on the clock the entire damn drive. I pull into the back alley of Ruin's End. Sable still asleep in the passenger seat, the second the truck eases to a stop, she jostles awake.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, stretching lightly. “My body’s not used to staying up this late. Or”—she pauses with a sly grin—“that many orgasms in one night.”
That pulls a smirk out of me. I reach over and squeeze her knee. “You can go up to the loft and crash in my bed if you’d rather not deal with this right now.”
She shakes her head as she unbuckles. “I want to see JT… if that’s all right.”
It’s more than all right. I nod and we get out, boots on pavement, night air thick with the noise of cicadas buzzing around us.
Inside, the bar is quiet. Patrons have all left.
Only the hum of fridges and the faint clatter behind the bar echoes across the space.
Macy’s going through closeout, cleaning down the taps.
It’s barely been two weeks and her first full weekend, but she moves like this is her hundredth night here.
Will’s influence, no doubt. He favors tight, clean systems and has zero tolerance for laziness.
She glances up, nods once at me, then does a double-take when she spots Sable behind me. There’s curiosity there, but no time. I lead Sable through the hallway toward the office, already bracing for what she’s about to see.
A sick bloody trail smears along the floor, telling a story I don’t want to read.
I glance back at her, expecting to see her falter.
She doesn’t. Not even a flicker.
I first notice Will through the office window, jaw tight.
I open the door and look to my younger brother.
JT’s propped up on the beat-up couch, shirt off, torso wrapped with a bar towel, face swollen and bruised to hell.
There’s dried blood crusted at the corner of his mouth.
One eye already purpling shut. His knuckles are split open, and there is a patchwork of cuts across his upper body.
My fist connects with the drywall before I can stop myself. The crack ricochets through the room, sharp enough to rattle bone. I feel the skin tear and know the familiar bruise I’ll feel later.
“Jesus,” I mutter when I see him. “JT—”
“I’m good,” he rasps, each word scraped out with pain. “Will patched me up.”
Will wipes a spot on his hand that’s crusted with blood. “Bleeding’s clotted… mostly. He needs rest.”
I can barely think. Rage is hot under my skin. I want to turn around, get back in my truck, find the bastards who did this, and tear through each fucking limb with a dull knife.
But Sable steps forward, calm and poised, a world away from the woman who came undone in my arms not even an hour ago. She lays a hand on Will’s arm.
“Mind if I take a look?” She asks softly.
Will glances at me, then back to her, something in his expression relaxing. He steps aside without a word. I’m in awe of her ease around my brothers.
Sable kneels in front of JT, focused like a switch flipped, and she’s pure instinct now. Pure care.
“I’ve got a ten-year-old,” she says, voice soothing without trying. “He doesn’t get stabbed in fights—thank God—but I’ve learned how to clean and bandage things right. Especially the ones that don’t get stitched but probably should.” She winks at JT. “Boys like to play rough.”
JT gives a weak huff of a laugh. “Don’t I know it.”
She lifts the towel with steady hands, as if the gore does not faze her. When she sees what’s underneath, there’s not a crease of fear to be seen. With narrowed eyes, she shifts into gear.
“You did good,” she tells Will, inspecting the wound. “Cleaned it, slowed the bleeding.”
Will blinks in surprise, rubs the back of his neck, and mumbles, “I just… disinfected what I could.”
“Well, you probably did better than most in this kind of situation,” she says without looking up.
She glances up, her eyes immediately locating the first aid kit as if she’s been here before.
Reaching over to the filing cabinet, she grabs the opened kit, and starts working.
Gloves snap into place as she pulls out antiseptic wipes and clean gauze.
She cuts open a packet, speaking like she’s a nurse to a wounded soldier, “This’ll sting,” and gently wipes along the edge of one of the stab wounds.
JT hisses but doesn’t pull away. His fingers dig into the couch’s fabric.
Her instincts aren’t performative—they’re bone-deep. Pure maternal. The kind of care that comes from somewhere raw and embedded. The kind I didn’t know I was still starving for until I watched her kneel beside my brother, steady hands and steady voice, as if she were born for moments like this.
And I’ve never wanted someone more.
Sable takes her time. Every wound is cleaned twice. She pats each area dry with gauze and talks to him the whole time in a low, calm voice that reminds me of our mother.
“You’re lucky,” she says, finally looking him in the eye. “I think they’ll scar, but they look shallow. I’m no doctor, but I’d say the bruising is going to suck, but you’ll heal.”
She grabs fresh gauze, antibiotic ointment, and surgical tape, then begins wrapping his torso with smooth, practiced movements.
“Bash wanted to learn skateboarding when he was six. YouTube’s great for a crash course in quick repairs. Did you eat today?”
“Burger earlier,” he says, clearly trying not to wince as she tightens the bandage.
“Well, you’re getting broth and a damn hydration packet when we’re done. Sit tight.”
JT stares at her in awe like she just blew in on angel wings, with a first-aid badge and a promise to cure all his mommy issues. “You always like this?”
Sable doesn’t look up. “Only when my kid or the people I care about get hurt.” She glances toward me, then back at JT. “You’re officially in that group by proxy.”
JT leans his head back and grins through swollen lips. “If I were older, you could’ve been mine.”
Sable lets out a snort, grabs another piece of tape, and says, “Sweetheart, while you were still swimming in your daddy’s nuts, I’d already been fantasizing about doing scandalous things with the original JT. Justin Timberlake.”
Will coughs to cover a laugh from the corner.
Sable stands and brushes off her hands. “So… that’s a no from me.”
JT’s still grinning, even though I know his whole face must ache. “Fair enough.”
I’m still watching her, stunned. I know I must be looking at her the way you look at something you thought only existed in fairytale stories.
She handled it all—blood, bruises, pain, humor—without breaking stride. Didn’t blink at the mess. Didn’t shrink at the gore. She came in, took control, made things better, and somehow didn’t make a show of it.
Sable’s not just good in a crisis. She becomes the calm in it. Like the storm bends around her instead of touching her, like chaos itself doesn’t dare disrupt the steadiness she brings.
Being in my bed, writhing beneath me and whispering my name in the dark was a bonus.
But having her in my life—in my world—is becoming a need.
To have her threaded through the parts of me I’ve kept sealed off.
Not because I thought no one could handle them, but because I never believed anyone would try.
But she would.
She already is.
The depraved thrum in my chest for wanting her, needing her doesn’t feel like lust. It’s been something I’ve been missing since the moment my mother’s body went cold. Something sacred. Something I’d kill to protect.
Hell, something I will kill to protect.
Standing there in the bloodstained office of my bar with drywall dust on my knuckles and my brother busted to hell, all I can think is:
What the fuck did I do to deserve this woman?
JT refused the bed upstairs, no matter how many times I offered it. Stubborn little bastard kept waving me off, half-sitting, half-sinking into the office couch.
“I'm fine,” he said, more annoyed than weak. “Stop hovering, man.”
Will even offered to take him to his place, but JT gave him a hard “fuck no” without missing a beat. Said he wouldn’t subject himself to staying in the House of OCD for even one night. I didn't argue after that. Just tossed him a blanket and made sure the office door locked from the inside.
Now, upstairs in the loft, I watch Sable climb into my bed with the ease of someone who belongs there. With one graceful movement, she shucks off her pants, bare legs brushing the sheets as she slides beneath the covers.
She’s quiet. I don’t think she’s questioning her choice to be with me, she’s likely bone-deep tired. I see it in the way she moves, her limbs slower, heavier. In the way her eyes press shut just a beat too long when she blinks.
I stand near the edge of the bed, watching her in the soft lamplight. She’s curled on her side, her hair mussed, her breathing slow but not quite restful. Her body looks like it’s trying to relax, but her face… her face still holds the tension of this late hour.
I reach for the hem of my shirt, ready to strip off everything the night dumped on us, but I stop when she slides to the edge of the bed.
The motion is slow, intentional. Not for show.
For me.
The blanket falls from her lap. Then she positions herself to kneel in front of me on the mattress’s edge.
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask to help me.
She just looks up at me with those tired, beautiful brown eyes and lifts her hands to the bottom of my shirt.
Her fingers graze my skin—light, curious—as she pushes the fabric up inch by inch. I raise my arms, letting her take it off. Her knuckles brush scars and hardened muscle on the way. The shirt lands somewhere behind her, forgotten.
Sable’s hands coasts over my torso like she’s studying me. Not mapping the damage but honoring it.
Pressing her palm flat against my stomach, she trails upward, over the dip between my ribs. She runs her delicate fingertips across the old burn mark on my side, a faint keepsake of a fight I don’t remember winning.