Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE ROOM STILL smelled like her, skin, sweat, and the faint trace of whatever lotion she used. Something soft, something that didn’t belong in a place built for men who carried knives and ghosts.
Lark was sprawled half across my chest, her breath warm against my skin, hair tangled and damp at the ends. She’d fallen asleep quick, the kind of sleep that comes after burnin’ yourself out from the inside.
I should’ve felt content. Hell, I should’ve felt lucky. But all I could do was stare at the ceiling and feel the unease crawl slow under my ribs.
She’d been quiet on the ride back. Not the kind of quiet that meant peace—the kind that meant distance. The kind that had her starin’ at the highway like it might swallow her whole.
Then the second we hit the bed, that distance turned into fire.
She kissed me like she needed to forget, touched me like she was tryin’ to outrun somethin’ only she could see. And I let her. I always would. But now, in the dark, I could feel the tremor still runnin’ through her.
“Lark,” I murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. Her skin was still warm, heartbeat soft against my chest. “What the hell’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”
No answer, just a small sound in her sleep—half sigh, half whimper.
I stared at the shadows crawlin’ along the walls. My gut twisted, same as it always did when somethin’ wasn’t right. I’d learned to trust that feeling; it’d kept me alive more than once.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t the bar, or the noise, or the new world she was tryin’ to fit into. This was deeper. Something had gotten to her.
And I hated not knowin’ what.
I tightened my arm around her, pullin’ her closer. She made a small sound, settled again.
“Don’t shut me out, Lark,” I whispered, the word rough against the quiet. “Not me.”
Her breath evened, slow and steady, but my mind didn’t ease. I lay there listening to her heartbeat, thinkin’ how easy it’d be for someone to hurt her again, how much I’d burn down to keep that from happenin’.
Whatever she was hidin’—whoever put that look in her eyes tonight—I’d find out. Because I’d seen enough ghosts in my time to know when one had come back to haunt someone I cared about.
And this time, I wasn’t lettin’ the past take what was mine.
***
MORNING CAME IN slow and hazy, the kind of gray light that slipped through the blinds like it didn’t want to wake anybody too hard.
It laid soft across the clubhouse, dust motes driftin’ lazy in the air.
The place was half-awake, someone laughin’ down the hall, dishes clankin’ in the kitchen, the muffled, familiar growl of an engine idlin’ somewhere outside.
Felt like any other mornin’.
Felt like a lie.
Lark sat at the table in one of my shirts, sleeves too long, collar hangin’ loose against her collarbone. One leg was tucked beneath her, the other foot resting on the cold wood floor. Steam curled slow from the mug she held between her hands.
She looked small like that.
Not weak. Not fragile.
Just… far away.
“Mornin’,” I said, voice rough from sleep and the cigarettes I hadn’t smoked yet.
She looked up, warmth flickerin’ in her eyes for half a second before it slid away. “Morning.”
Josie was hummin’ by the stove, flippin’ somethin’ in a skillet like he didn’t want to be part of whatever was brewin’ between us. I gave him a nod and poured myself coffee, watchin’ Lark out of the corner of my eye. She kept her gaze fixed anywhere but me.
“You sleep okay?” I asked, leanin’ back against the counter.
“Yeah.” Too quick. “Just tired.”
I took a sip, let it burn a little. “Funny,” I said. “Didn’t seem tired last night.”
Her cheeks flushed, color bloom-in’ high. Still didn’t look at me. “Guess it caught up with me.”
That twist hit my gut again. The one I’d learned not to ignore. The one that said I was bein’ managed, smoothed over, handled gentle so I wouldn’t push too hard.
Josie set a plate of eggs down in front of her, then glanced my way. Just a look. Subtle. The kind that said somethin’ ain’t right. Then he wiped his hands on a towel and slipped out the back door.
I crossed the room slow, set my cup down, and rested my hand on the back of her chair. Didn’t crowd her. Didn’t rush it.
“You’ve been quiet since we left the bar last night,” I said.
“I really am just tired,” she said again, pokin’ at the eggs like they’d offended her.
I crouched beside her, brought my hand up and tipped her chin until she had no choice but to look at me. Her eyes were soft, but guarded. Careful.
“You gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on,” I asked, keeping my voice calm, “or we gonna play this game all mornin’?”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. She held my gaze for a beat, then let it slip away. “It’s nothing, Chain. Really.”
The way she said my name—soft, almost plead-in’—should’ve eased me.
It didn’t.
“Don’t lie to me, Lark.” My voice dropped, slow and sure. “I know when somethin’s off. You came back wired tight, then you damn near tore the skin off me like you were tryin’ to erase whatever it was.”
She flinched.
Just a little.
Enough.
I closed my eyes for a second, breathed through it, forced the edge outta my tone. “I’m not mad,” I said. “I just… need to know what’s messin’ with you.”
For a heartbeat, I thought she might tell me.
Her lips parted. Her eyes went glassy in the pale mornin’ light, like the truth was right there, sittin’ heavy behind them.
Then she blinked.
And that careful calm slid back into place.
“It’s nothing you can fix,” she whispered.
“Maybe not,” I said, thumb brushin’ gentle along her jaw. “But I can damn sure try.”
She smiled then. Small. Worn around the edges. Not the kind that reached all the way in.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Chain.”
“Too late,” I said, watchin’ her stand, watchin’ the sunlight catch the edge of her scar as she turned away. “Already started.”
She didn’t answer.
Just walked out, the door clickin’ shut behind her like a final word.
The silence that followed hit harder than the noise ever had.
I stood there longer than I meant to, coffee goin’ cold in my hand, starin’ at nothin’. All I could see was that look in her eyes—like she’d already stepped halfway into someplace dark. Somewhere I couldn’t reach her.
And for the first time in a long damn while, fear settled in my chest. Not of losin’ her body. But of losin’ whatever piece of her she’d just handed back to the dark.