Chapter 19 Definitely Not Smart
Raine
I’m happier.
That’s the annoying part.
I hate admitting it, even in my own head, but ever since I finally said the words out loud—I don’t want to do it alone anymore—something inside me unclenched.
Not all the way. There’s still a fist punching my stomach half the time.
But I don’t feel like I’m walking a tightrope over fire every second of the day anymore.
Now it’s more like a narrow sidewalk next to speeding traffic with no guardrail.
Better, but not exactly safe.
Still, I’ve got Theo’s soft texts, Elias’ steady checking in, and Jax’s chaotic memes. They’re here. They’re around. They’re in my bed, in my shop, in my head.
That last part is its own problem. Because somewhere between the crying-into-Theo’s-shirt moment and Jax cornering me in a storage closet and Elias telling me the truth is better, I’ve stumbled into something I can’t define.
What are we?
I know what we do.
I know what they’ve done to me. For me. In me.
I mean, they all know about each other. Nobody’s pretending otherwise. Theo knows I slept with Jax and Elias; Elias knows about Theo and Jax; Jax knows about Theo and Elias, and aside from a few sharp edges and Theo vs. Jax’s quiet pissing match, nobody’s told me to choose.
They're just… there. Close. Closer than anyone has been in a long time. And instead of choking, I’m breathing easier.
Which should feel good. And it does, but it also scares the shit out of me. Bash exists. And men like Bash don’t just go for throats. They go for hearts.
The news anchor’s voice buzzes through my tiny living room like a fly I can’t swat. I sit on the arm of the couch, wrapping my hands with tape, eyes fixed on the cheap TV as the story plays out.
“…police are still investigating what they’re calling a home invasion gone wrong in the West Heights area. Thirty-four-year-old Lydia Cortez was attacked outside her home late last night—”
The grainy street camera still pops up on the screen. A woman in a dark coat walking up a driveway. A figure stepping out of the shadows. It cuts away before anything graphic, but my stomach already twists.
I know that face, that name.
My mind immediately flashes images of Bash’s too-bright dining room, the cheap ass art he pretends is refined, and the expensive plates.
I remember sitting at the end of the table feeling itchy and ready to bolt.
Lydia was sitting two seats down, laughing too loudly, clutching her wineglass with white knuckles, fear clear even through her performance.
Her husband was at her side, trying too hard to be friendly with Bash.
He owed money. I’d heard Bash say it, half-joking, half-threat, over dessert.
Now Lydia’s on the news with “home invasion” stamped over her face and I know exactly what happened.
I don't have to listen to the rest of the news to know what happened, to know who really did it.
My throat is dry, but my palms are damp under the tape. I hit the power button with more force than necessary. The screen goes black, but the image doesn’t. It sits behind my eyes, Lydia’s face overlapping with other faces I care about now.
Jax’s stupid ass grin that I think I actually really like. Theo’s soft, earnest eyes that I can never seem to stop staring into. Elias’ calm, steady hands that I find myself longing for.
If Bash ever finds out about them, about how much they mean to me, he won’t need to threaten my hands or my shop. He’ll go for the faster route.
He’ll go for them.
The thought makes my stomach lurch. I take a slow breath, trying to shake it off. I’ve got a fight tonight. My brain needs to be on the ring, not on hypotheticals.
I flex my wrapped hands and force myself to finish the routine. I throw my hoodie on, lace my boots, and grab my gear bag by the door, flipping off the lights and heading out.
The warehouse feels more alive than usual. Lights streaming into the parking lot, music thrumming louder than usual. The lot is full, but even through all those vehicles, I spot three familiar chrome motorcycles. Theirs.
It isn't until I get down and head for the door that I spot them. They’re leaning against the outer wall when I round the corner, half in shadow, half in the glow from the flickering sign above the door.
Jax spots me first, his whole face lighting up like I’m his favorite toy. He pushes off the wall, swinging his keys once just to fidget with something. “There she is,” he crows. “Our reigning queen of sanctioned violence.”
Theo’s smile is smaller, softer, but it hits just as hard. He straightens, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders immediately relaxing a notch, like seeing me physically present rewires his brain.
Elias just watches me for a second, eyes scanning, EMT mode on automatic—checking for limp, wince, anything. When he doesn’t find any, the corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re late.”
“I’m five minutes early.”
“Exactly,” he deadpans.
I roll my eyes, but something in my chest warms. I didn’t ask them to be here, but I’m not surprised they are.
I stop in front of them, hitching my gear bag higher on my shoulder. “What, group field trip?”
“Support squad,” Theo corrects. “We got shirts printed.”
I arch a brow. “You did not.”
Jax snickers. “Okay, we didn’t, but now I kind of want to.”
Elias ignores both of them. “Same rules as always. You get hurt, I patch you up. You don’t get hurt, I still check you over. And if anyone touches you wrong, we break their hands.”
“That last one is new,” I point out.
He shrugs. “Updated policy.”
My mouth twitches. I don’t say thank you, but it’s there, a quiet thing between us.
Inside, the crowd is thick, alive with something new. Something I'm not sure I like. We weave through the bodies, the guys flanking me like they’re on some kind of security detail. People part more than usual, eyes flicking between the three of them and me.
We claim a corner near the rail. I drop my bag, peel off my hoodie, and roll my shoulders while the boys talk shit and scan the room for threats like it’s a hobby.
When my name gets called, Jax cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Break her nose, Sunshine!”
Theo winces. “Please don’t break anything,” he mutters for his conscience.
Elias just squeezes my shoulder once, firm. “Breathe,” he reminds me. “You’ve got this.”
I nod, then step into the ring.
The fight is quick. My opponent barely makes it through one. Whatever anger and anxiety have been building, I let it all channel into my fists, into my footwork, into the clean, satisfying feel of my knuckles against jaw.
By the time the ref catches her arm to keep her from kissing the mat again, my knuckles are buzzing, my lungs are burning in the good way, and the crowd is a blurred wall of noise.
My hand goes up, but my eyes go straight to my corner.
Jax is half over the rail, whooping like he just won a bet. Theo looks like he forgot how to breathe for the entire match and is now catching up. Elias is grinning, small and proud, like the sun finally decided to show.
Yeah. Okay. I’m happy.
I hop down out of the ring, accept a towel from someone, and make my way to the back hallway. I don’t have to look to know they’re following.
The room they give me to change in is barely bigger than a closet. One plastic chair, one hook, one crooked mirror. I drop my bag, swipe sweat from my forehead, and turn just as the door opens without a knock. Because boundaries are a suggestion to them, apparently.
Jax slips in first, then Theo, then Elias, filling the tiny space with heat and leather and way too much male energy for four walls.
“You can’t just barge in here.”
Jax smirks that same little mischievous grin. “Door was unlocked.”
“That’s not how privacy works.”
“We’ll shut our eyes,” he offers with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Scout’s honor.”
“You gotta stop saying that. You were never a scout.”
He shrugs like it doesn't matter.
Theo, bless him, at least has the decency to look faintly embarrassed. He stays near the door, fingers automatically checking the lock this time. “We, uh, wanted to say good job before you disappeared.” He pauses like he’s unsure if he wants to say the next part “You were… incredible.”
The way he says it makes a shiver skitter down my spine for a reason that has nothing to do with the fight.
Elias steps closer with a towel in hand and asks me, “You good? Anything feel off?”
“Just my ego. She got one good hit in.”
He scans my face anyway, fingers gentle under my chin as he tips my head to see better. His touch is clinical and intimate at the same time. When he’s satisfied, he lets go and, without warning, leans in and kisses me.
It’s not filthy. It’s not soft, either. It’s grounded and mine.
“Proud of you,” he murmurs against my lips.
My chest does something stupid. Before I can process that, Theo steps in with a quiet kind of determination written all over his face. He touches my cheek, giving me plenty of time to back away. But like I ever would now.
His kiss is exactly what I expected—gentle, careful, but sure. He lingers half a second longer than he needs to, like he’s memorizing the moment.
“You were amazing,” he tells me, voice low, eyes bright.
I swallow, heat crawling up my neck. “You guys are really leaning into this ‘support squad’ thing.”
Jax snorts. “Please. Like I’m gonna let them show me up.”
He hooks a finger under my chin and kisses me like it’s a competition. There’s teeth, there’s tongue, there’s Jax making a quiet, possessive noise into my mouth that should not do the things to me that it does.
When he pulls back, his grin is pure sin. “Fuck, I love watching you work,” he rasps. “You make violence look sexy as hell.”
I huff out a breath that’s half laugh, half shaky exhale. “Well, thanks.”
The second the word leaves my mouth, all three of them go still.
Fuck.
Normally I’d deflect, snap, make a joke. Fall back on sarcasm, but tonight I let the gratitude slip out.