Chapter Fourteen
Rowen
I slipped into the beach house a few hours before sunrise.
The salt-soaked wind clung to my skin, mingling with the coppery scent of dried blood on my swollen knuckles.
My feet dragged gritty sand across the floor as I moved, every ache in my body a souvenir from the night’s violence.
All I wanted was a shower so hot it might burn away the memory of the arena, maybe even the memory of Sinclair’s games—games that had cost me more than sleep; they’d left scars I couldn’t wash away in any shower.
As I passed the office, the faint glow of a desk lamp caught my eye, and I turned to see the bane of my existence sitting behind his desk.
I stopped, jaw tight, and turned to face him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I growled, each syllable rough with exhaustion and something like resentment.
“This is my house, is it not?”
“You should have stayed in Chicago.”
“And let you destroy yourself?”
I barked a dry laugh, glancing at the bruises purpling beneath the harsh hallway light. “Now you care about me?” The ocean’s distant crash pressed against the windows—a reminder of the world outside his rules, and the isolation in here.
Sinclair met my gaze from behind his desk, his eyes shadowed and weary. “Believe it or not, Rowen, I care. I’m trying to protect you.” His voice was steady, but something in it wavered—a crack in the armor he always wore.
I stared at him, my words caught between my throat and my pride.
Behind his tired eyes, I caught a flash of regret—or maybe it was just the exhaustion from too many secrets.
I wanted to believe him. But the ache beneath my skin, the memories of late-night deals and bruised promises, made trust feel as far away as dawn.
I scoffed, the sound low and bitter. “That’s rich, since you’re the one I need protection from. ”
For a long moment, he said nothing as the faint sound of waves crashed outside, a reminder that the world kept moving, indifferent to the pain festering within these walls.
My fists clenched at my sides as I forced myself to hold his gaze, unwilling to be the first to break.
The silence stretched thick with old wounds and unspoken words.
Sinclair finally broke the silence, his jaw flexing, lips thinning as if wrestling with words that had waited years to surface.
The desk lamp’s glow etched deep lines into his face.
The starkness of shadow made him appear older, the weight of regret heavy across his features.
For an instant, he seemed almost breakable.
“I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” he began, his voice low, the words scraped raw by memory.
“But protecting you—even from yourself—was never one of them. I told myself I was shielding you, not just from the world, but from the truth I wasn’t sure you could survive.
Years ago, I asked if you wanted to know about your past—about who you truly were.
I gathered information, believing maybe you deserved answers, but I also feared what those answers might do to you. Do you remember what you said to me?”
“I said I didn’t give a fuck.” My words came out harsh, but as I spoke them, I felt how brittle they sounded—defiant, yes, but hiding a fear I’d never dared to name.
Sinclair nodded, a slow, measured gesture.
He exhaled as if letting go of something he’d carried for years.
“So I hid the information, thinking I was buying you time—time to heal, time to decide who you wanted to be without that burden. Everything I’ve done since then—every cruel choice, every lie—was to give you that space, even if it cost me your trust. But now.
..” His voice faltered, and for a heartbeat, I saw the flicker of a man at war with his own choices.
“Your time is up. The truth is coming, whether you are ready or not, and for once, I can’t stand in the way. ”
I swallowed; a cold unease coiled inside me. My chest tightened, suspicion and dread warring beneath my ribs. I stared at him, the air crackling with the weight of what he wasn’t saying, my skin prickling. I wanted to shout, to demand answers, but my mouth had gone dry.
Sinclair cleared his throat, steadying himself.
“Several months ago, while I was in Boston, I was given files I thought long buried for good—files about all of us. Files that contained information about our real identities. Those files contained your birth name and your birth parents. I checked them again and again, hoping there was some mistake. But there wasn’t.
You have a blood sister... and after some more digging, I learned you have two half-brothers.
Travis, you know about and Tucker Foley. ”
His words hit like a punch—brothers and a sister?
For a heartbeat, my thoughts scattered, the idea of family foreign and jagged.
The truth meant nothing and everything all at once—a possibility, a threat, a question I didn’t know how to ask.
Why now? What did it matter if they existed, if all they brought was more chaos to a life already ruled by secrets?
“Why are you bringing this up now?” I managed, my voice a brittle echo, trying to mask the tremor of fear and longing I hadn’t expected.
“Because the truth will set you free.” Sinclair’s words hung in the air, fragile with hope, aching with the admission that sometimes freedom was as terrifying as any cage.
For a moment, he looked as if he were pleading not just for my understanding, but for forgiveness—for all he had withheld, for all he still feared he might lose.
“Fuck you and your word games, Sinclair,” I groaned, shaking my head, anger and confusion colliding in my chest. “I’m tired, and I want to go to bed. Have you learned any more news? Are my brother and Sypher alive?”
“I’m still waiting.” His answer was soft, almost apologetic, as if he understood that tonight, no truth could offer comfort—not yet.
“Fine,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck, trying to ground myself in something familiar as the world shifted beneath my feet. “Wake me when you know something.”
Heading to my room, a weight pressed down on me as I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion and disbelief tangling together until I could barely breathe.
For all of Sinclair’s confessions, the answers only led to more questions, each heavier than the last. Was this what truth was supposed to feel like—a window thrown open in a storm, the wind too fierce to let me stand upright?
I didn’t know if I could forgive him, or myself, for the years lost to secrets.
All I knew was that nothing—absolutely nothing—would ever be the same.
Days crept by since the Death Dogs stormed the Silver Shadows’ clubhouse.
Tension clung to every corner. Dante paced, jaw clenched, checking his phone again and again, only to hear Deputy Wyatt’s voicemail prompt—never his voice.
Frustration flickered in Sinclair’s eyes each time he reached out for information and learned nothing.
Dante and Roxy, both worried about the young man who was their world, had no luck contacting Sypher.
Roxy tapped nervously at her leg, while Dante stared at the blank screen, willing a message to appear.
Even Melissa had reached out to a handful of friends, her fingers trembling as she typed, but they were all in the same boat—isolated and waiting for news.
No one knew anything. The silence was suffocating. Sinclair’s calls went unanswered—by everyone.
The anxiety grew worse with each passing hour.
Sinclair couldn’t even get ahold of Mischief, the one person who always answered, no matter what.
He tapped the phone against his palm, lips pressed tight, feeling a cold unease sink deeper into his chest. For the first time, even Mischief’s line was dead.
With everyone waiting on pins and needles, I forced myself to set aside my own problems. The uncertainty of the future gnawed at my insides—every unanswered call, every minute of silence, made my chest tighter with fear for my brother and Sypher.
I hated how helpless I felt watching Melissa unravel, knowing that no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t shield her from pain or offer her more than hollow reassurances.
The guilt pressed in, suffocating and unwelcome.
Like everyone else in the house, I kept myself busy, reaching out to my contacts, desperate for any word. Anything to pass the time. Every time I came up empty, frustration and dread churned together until I could barely think straight.
Sinclair’s office was heavy with the scent of old paper and the faint tang of sea salt—the window cracked open to the restless hush of the waves outside.
My nerves jangled as I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Melissa appeared at the door with Danika.
She lingered in the threshold, her voice trembling as she asked, “Have you heard anything yet?”
Sinclair looked up at her, sorrow etched deep in his features. “No, my dear,” he said, his apology gentle and genuine. “As soon as I hear anything, you will be the first to know. I promise.”
Melissa nodded; her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying. “Dani and I are going to the beach if you need me.” Her voice was barely above a whisper; the words almost lost in the quiet.
Neither of us said anything as Melissa ushered Danika away, her hand trembling as she closed the door behind them. The only sound was the distant crash of waves, which made the silence in the office feel even heavier.
“She’s getting worse,” I whispered, my voice raw with worry.
I couldn’t stop picturing her sitting alone, unraveling thread by thread under the strain of waiting.
“Roxy told me she refuses to eat and has barely slept.” The thought sent another ripple of guilt through me; I should do more, but I was quickly realizing how powerless I really was.
Sinclair sighed, rubbing his hands down his tired face. “I know,” he replied quietly. “I’ve been monitoring her, too.” His voice held a weary resignation, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights and no answers.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Call O’Malley,” I suggested, my words more desperate plea than calm advice. Braesal O’Malley, head of the Irish Mob in Boston, had been in the area before the attack—maybe he knew something, anything, that could break this nightmare of silence.
Sinclair barely looked at me as he responded, his voice heavy, “I did this morning. It’s not good.”
My stomach clenched. “What does that mean?” I asked, my voice shaking now.
Sinclair leveled his gaze at me, his eyes full of grim understanding. “There are several wounded and deaths on both sides.”
I tried to steady myself, forcing the panic back down. “Did he say who?”
“No,” Sinclair replied, voice flat. “Only that the clubhouse resembled a war zone, and that it doesn’t look good. The sheriff, King, and Reaper are holding off notifying anyone until the identities can be verified.”
“How fucking hard is it for King and Reaper to know if my brother and Sypher survived?” I shouted, my voice echoing in the cramped office just as Roxy burst into the room, breathless and wide-eyed.
“A cab is approaching!” she announced, her words tumbling over each other.
The tension snapped. All of us leaped from our seats, chasing after Dante as he darted for the front door.
The door banged open, letting in a rush of salty wind and the distant call of gulls.
We spilled out onto the porch just as the cab stopped in front of the beach house, and my heart slammed against my ribs when I saw Sypher climb out of the back seat—alive.