Chapter 10
JOSIE
Ihear them before I see them.
The rumble of an engine, voices in the parking lot, then the front door opening and a rush of activity that pulls me off the bed and downstairs before I can think better of it.
My ribs scream. I ignore them.
Ginger’s voice is high and worried. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Bradley, what happened? Is that blood? Whose blood is that?”
“Seriously, I’m fine, Ging. It’s not mine.”
“It’s on your hands! It’s all over your hands!”
“I said I’m fine.”
I reach the main room just as they come through the door.
Brick is first—massive, impassive, his knuckles split and bloody. Behind him, supported by Maggie’s arm around her waist, is Isabel.
I barely recognize her.
Her face is a mess of fresh bruises, one eye already swelling shut. Blood mats her hair on one side, and she moves like every step costs her. But her arms are locked tight around a small figure pressed against her chest.
A child. A little girl with dark hair and huge eyes, clutching a stuffed rabbit like her life depends on it.
My stomach drops. My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it.
Oh God. Oh, Isabel.
This is what she was running back to. This is why she was so desperate, why she couldn’t stay, why she fought Stone so hard on that one-night deal. Not stubbornness. Not secrets. A little sister trapped in a house with a monster.
And I let her go alone.
Guilt twists in my chest, sharp and ugly. I should have pushed harder. Should have seen past my own pain and exhaustion to what she was hiding. I’m a goddamn lawyer—I’m supposed to read people. I’m supposed to help.
Instead, I was tangled up in Stone while she walked back into hell.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
Isabel’s gaze finds mine across the room. Something passes between us—recognition, understanding.
This is what I was protecting. This is why I couldn’t stay, she seems to say.
“Josie.” Stone appears beside me, his hand on my arm. “You should be in bed.”
“Later.” I shake him off, already moving forward. “What do you need? What can I do?”
“She needs a doctor,” Brick says. His voice is flat, but his eyes track Isabel’s every movement. “The kid needs food and a bed.”
“We can do that.” Maggie is already in motion. “Ginger, get my kit. Emma, see if we have anything a child would eat. If not, run across the street and grab something from Andi. Kya—towels and blankets.”
The clubhouse erupts into organized chaos. Women moving with purpose, men clearing space, everyone falling into roles like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
I find a spot against the wall, out of the way but close enough to watch.
Isabel has been deposited on the couch, Maggie working on her injuries with quick, efficient hands. She hasn’t let go of Lily—the little girl is curled in her lap, face buried against her chest, the rabbit clutched between them.
“This is going to sting,” Maggie warns, dabbing at a cut on Isabel’s forehead.
Isabel doesn’t flinch. Just holds Lily tighter.
“The ribs?” Maggie asks.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not comforting, honey.”
Emma appears with a plate—peanut butter sandwich, apple slices, a glass of milk. She crouches down next to the couch, her voice soft.
“Hey there, sweetheart. Are you hungry?”
Lily peeks out from Isabel’s chest. Her eyes are red, her cheeks tear-stained, but she looks at the sandwich with obvious longing.
“It’s okay, baby,” Isabel murmurs. “You can eat.”
Lily hesitates. Then she reaches out and takes an apple slice, nibbling it like a little mouse.
Emma smiles. “There’s more where that came from. As much as you want.”
“Really?”
“Really. And chocolate chip cookies, if you’re good.”
Lily’s eyes go wide. She looks up at Isabel for confirmation.
“She’s telling the truth,” Isabel says. “These people—they’re nice. They’re going to help us.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her say anything positive about... well, anything. It makes my throat tighten.
Whatever Brick has done—whatever happened in that house—Isabel isn’t fighting anymore.
She’s letting people in.
I watch her smooth Lily’s hair back, watch the way she leans into Maggie’s steady presence instead of pulling away. This is what it looks like when someone finally feels safe. When the weight they’ve been carrying alone gets shared.
I hate that it took this much to get her there. Hate that she had to be beaten bloody before she could accept that not everyone is a threat. Hate that somewhere out there, a man is still breathing after doing this to her.
But she’s here now. She and her sister are safe.
Thank God.
STONE
I find Brick in the garage, running water over his hands.
The blood swirls down the drain—his and someone else’s, mixed together. His knuckles are raw, split in several places. He’s done some damage tonight.
Good.
“How bad?” I ask.
“She’ll live. Ribs might be cracked, lot of bruising. Head wound looks worse than it is.” He doesn’t look up from his hands. His voice is flat, clinical, like he’s giving a report, not talking about a girl who was nearly beaten to death.
But I can see it’s affected him. Water runs red over his hands, then pink, then clear, but his fingers stay curled, knuckles rigid. His jaw is set hard enough to ache, his eyes dark and shuttered.
“She’s been through worse,” he mutters, his frown deepening. “You can tell by the way she takes a hit.”
My jaw tightens. “What was the situation?
“Stepfather wailing on the both of them, I suspect.”
“Is the kid hers?”
He shakes his head. “Her sister, I think.”
I nod, filing that away. “And the dad?”
“Alive.” Brick turns off the water, grabs a rag. “Not happy about it. But alive.”
“Blow back?”
He glances up, his gaze ice cold. “If he comes sniffing around, he knows the consequences.”
The way he says it tells me everything I need to know.
“She’s ours now. Both of them. You understand?”
“I told him the same thing.” Brick’s eyes meet mine. “Right before I broke his ribs.”
“Good.”
He goes back to drying his hands, methodical, thorough. But there’s a tremor in his fingers that wasn’t there before. A tightness around his eyes that has nothing to do with the fight.
I’ve known Brick for years. Watched him walk into firefights without flinching, take bullets without complaint, put down threats with cold efficiency. I’ve never seen him rattled.
He’s rattled now.
Whatever he saw in that house—whatever memories it dragged up—it got under his skin.
I don’t ask. He wouldn’t answer if I did. Best I can do now is wait for him to decide what filth is sitting under his skin that he wants to share.
Unfortunately, this isn’t my first rodeo waiting out men who would prefer to punch out their feelings than talk about them.
Though, if he asked, I’d let him go a few rounds with the new prospects.
Silence stretches between us.
“I thought she was a plant,” Brick says quietly. “Followed her expecting to find a traitor. Instead I found—” He stops. Shakes his head.
“I get it”
He looks down at his ruined hands. “There was something about that house. The way it smelled. I knew before I knew, if that makes sense.”
It does. I’ve had moments like that—where your gut understands something before your brain catches up.
“You did good tonight,” I say. “Whatever else happens, you did good.”
Brick nods once. “She doesn’t know if I’m real.”
“What?”
“Isabel.” He almost smiles. “She’s been looking at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m real.”
“Give her time. She’s had a rough night.”
“Yeah.” He wraps the rag around his knuckles, makeshift bandage. “She’s had a rough life.”
I can’t argue with that.
JOSIE
The chaos settles as the night wears on.
Lily has fallen asleep on the couch, the sandwich mostly eaten, the rabbit clutched under her chin. Someone has found a blanket—soft and pink, probably Emma’s contribution—and tucked it around her small body.
Isabel sits beside her, refusing to move despite Maggie’s protests. She’s been bandaged and dosed with painkillers, but she won’t leave her sister’s side. Won’t even close her eyes.
“She needs to rest,” Maggie murmurs to me. “They both do. But she won’t go anywhere without the kid.”
“Then we make sure they stay together.”
“We will. Ginger’s already setting up the big guest room—the one with two beds.” Maggie shakes her head. “That poor girl. Both of them. What they must have been through...”
I don’t want to imagine it. The bruises tell enough of the story.
“She’s safe now,” I say. “That’s what matters.”
“Is she? Safe doesn’t just mean walls and locks. Safe means feeling like you can breathe. Feeling like the worst is over and you can trust those around you.” Maggie looks at Isabel, still rigid on that couch. “That kind of safety takes time.”
“Then we give her time.”
“We will.” Maggie pats my arm. “You should rest too. Your ribs aren’t going to heal if you keep running around.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” But she smiles. “Just like the rest of them.”
I find Stone on the back porch.
He’s standing at the railing, looking out at nothing, a beer dangling from his fingers. The tension in his shoulders says he’s been carrying the weight of the world again—and probably will keep carrying it, because that’s who he is.
“Hey,” I say.
He turns, his face relaxing when he sees me.
“Hey yourself.” He shifts to make room. “You should be—”
“If you say ‘in bed,’ I’m going to throw a prospect at you.”
“I was going to say ‘off your feet.’ But the sentiment stands.”
I move to stand beside him, close enough that our arms brush. The night is cool, the stars bright, the sounds of the clubhouse muffled behind us.
“Hell of a night,” I say.
“Hell of a week.”
“That too.”
We stand in silence for a moment.
“She was protecting a six-year-old,” I say quietly. “This whole time. That’s what she was hiding.”
“I know.”
“And we thought she was a spy.”
“We had to be sure.” His voice is tired. Resigned. “It’s my job to be suspicious.”