Chapter 15 East
East
The gun in my hands is cool and steady. I wish I felt the same.
I field strip the Glock with practiced, mechanical movements, my fingers finding the familiar grooves and pins without needing to see.
It’s a rhythm. A meditation. Something to keep my hands busy so they don’t punch a hole through the nearest wall.
The sharp, clean scent of gun oil fills the air in the back room of the clubhouse, but it does nothing to cover the metallic taste of helpless rage in my mouth.
It’s been days since the country club. Days since I’ve heard from her.
Her father has her on lockdown, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
Frankie’s been pacing the bar all night, a low, anxious thrum under her skin that’s setting my own teeth on edge.
She cornered me an hour ago, her eyes dark.
“Something's wrong, East. I can't feel her.
It's like she's… blank.” Her 'witchy' bullshit is never wrong, and the fact that Darla’s phone has been going straight to voicemail for two days has been a slow, grinding poison in my gut. While the club hums with the easy noise of a weekend night, I’m back here, counting the seconds, imagining her trapped in that house, her face a perfect porcelain mask.
My gut is a knot of useless adrenaline. Declan’s promise is a ghost whispering failure in my ear. Take care of her. How can I when I can’t even get to her?
The sharp crack of a pool ball echoes from the main room, followed by a burst of laughter.
The sound grates on my raw nerves. I slide the magazine back into the Glock with a final, satisfying click and stand, the chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor.
I need a drink, some noise—anything to silence the din of my own thoughts.
I step out into the main room, and the familiar chaos washes over me. The smell of smoke, sweat, and spilled beer permeates the air Music hammers from the jukebox. For a second, it’s almost enough to quiet the storm in my head. I’m halfway to the bar when it happens.
The door slams open, crashing against the wall with the force of a gunshot. I fish a cigarette, stop, and switch to gum. Nicotine wants blood; she’ll need breath.
The world lurches. Chairs scrape. The music seems to die. For a heartbeat, I think we’re being raided, that the fire we’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived.
Then I see her.
And the world stops.
It’s a ghost wearing Darla’s face. My blood runs cold.
The air punches out of my lungs. She’s standing in the doorway, swaying, held up by nothing but sheer will.
Her fancy silver dress is in rags, torn at the hip, the delicate fabric smeared with dirt and something dark.
With a tangled mess of hair, mascara flows like a river on her cheek.
Her lip is split, and a bruise is already blooming high on her cheekbone, a violent purple against her pale skin. Mud and blood cover her bare feet.
She takes one stumbling step inside, then another. My feet are lead. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. All I can see is the blood on her skin and the haunted, shattered look in her eyes.
Ruby is the first to move, a blur of motion, colliding with Darla and clutching her arms to keep her from collapsing. She’s shouting something, but I can’t hear it over the high-pitched ringing that has started in my ears.
Then I’m moving. I don’t remember deciding to.
My body just takes over, crossing the room in three long strides, the need to get to her so overwhelming it’s a physical force.
I’m a shield. An anchor. Anything she needs.
The scent of her hits me—champagne, sweat, and the sharp, coppery tang of blood.
I reach her, my warmth, my leather, wrapping around her.
My body knows her before my mind can catch up.
She collapses into my chest, and a tremor runs through her, a violent, full-body shudder that vibrates through my own bones.
I stroke her hair back from her face, my hand shaking. My voice comes out, but it’s not mine. It’s rough, broken. “What happened, baby?”
A sob rips out of her, a raw, animal sound of pure pain, and it shatters something inside of me.
Frankie is suddenly there, crouching beside us.
Her eyes meet mine over Darla’s shaking head, and I see her own terror reflected at me.
You were right. The look is a silent, horrifying confirmation of her 'feeling.
' Her palm goes flat on Darla’s back. “Talk to us, D,” she says, her voice sharp and grounding. “What the hell happened?”
“My dad,” Darla rasps, the words scraping out of her raw throat. “He said—said it was a party. But it wasn’t… It was an auction.”
Auction. The word is a bomb detonating in the silent room.
Auctions have ledgers. Ledgers have leaks.
Rage can wait; paper won’t. My mind flashes to the country club, to Trent’s smug, possessive face.
It wasn’t just a dinner. It was a preview.
The red haze that had been simmering in my gut all night ignites.
“Trent—he—” Her voice splinters. “He was supposed to buy me… My dad told him—told him I was being difficult, so he’d fix it so I couldn’t say no.”
The sob that follows rips through her, and my arms band around her in a desperate, useless attempt to keep her from shattering completely. I can feel Nash’s presence at my back, a silent, heavy weight of fury. He knows. He understands the line that has just been crossed.
“I ran,” she gasps into my shirt. “Pulled the alarm… But Trent—he found me. He beat the shit out of me.”
My vision goes red. A guttural sound tears from my throat, a sound of pure, murderous rage. He beat her. He put his hands on her and hurt her. I’m going to kill him. Not just kill him. I’m going to take him apart, piece by bloody piece.
“I grabbed his gun,” she whispers, then a strange, jagged laugh shakes her frame. “Shot his dick off.”
The shock of it cuts through the red haze. A bark of horrified, incredulous laughter almost escapes me. Holy shit. She fought back. The girl who looked like a broken doll just a second ago has the heart of a fucking warrior. Awe so fierce it almost knocks me off my feet.
Her own laugh collapses into gut-wrenching sobs. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do…”
That’s it. That’s what breaks me out of the rage. Her pain. Her fear. “Come on, sugar.” I scoop her up into my arms. She weighs nothing. Like a broken bird. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
As I carry her toward the stairs, I look at my brothers. At Nash, his face a mask of cold fury. At Malachi, who has appeared from the back, his expression dark and dangerous. They know. There will be a reckoning. Kyle appears with gauze and water, eyes steady.
“0600 at the garage still stands.”
He just nods once, jaw tight. “Got it.”
The stairs tilt under us. I bury my face in her hair, smelling sweat and smoke and the iron tang of blood. My own. Hers. It doesn’t matter. It’s the scent of a war that has just been declared. The hallway blurs. I push the door to Malachi’s room open and head for the en-suite bathroom.
I set her carefully onto the closed toilet lid, my arms reluctant to let go.
I press a kiss to the top of her head—quick, grounding, an apology for not being there.
Then I straighten and slip out, leaving her in the capable hands of Candace and Frankie, who have followed us up.
Seeing the storm in Candace’s eyes, I know Darla needs them more than she needs me right now.
I lean against the outside wall, hands clenched into fists at my sides, listening.
The sound of running water, the low murmur of their voices—Candace's steady and calm, Darla's soft and broken—reaches me.
Each sound is a turn of the knife in my gut.
This is my fault. I should have stopped it.
I lay a clean tee and sweats on the bed. Soft. No seams on ribs.
Heavy footsteps echo on the stairs. It’s Malachi and Nash. They surround me, silent, a solid wall of shared fury at my back. They heard her story and saw the damage.
“Talk to me,” Malachi says, his voice a low growl that vibrates in the narrow hallway.
“I want them,” I say, the words scraping out of my throat, raw and cold. “Trent. And her father. I want them both.”
“Trent’s easy,” Nash says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. It’s the voice he uses when he’s planning a hunt. “He’ll go to a hospital. We can have guys there in ten minutes. Graves is harder. He’ll lock himself down.”
“We don’t move on Graves yet,” Malachi commands, his president voice cutting through my rage. “Going after a sitting mayor is an act of war. We do it quiet. We do it smart.” He turns his gaze to me, his eyes dark with a promise. “But Trent? Trent doesn’t get a hospital.”
A cold, brutal sense of satisfaction cuts through my guilt. Malachi claps a hand on my shoulder, a heavy, grounding weight. “Nash will handle Trent. You stay with her. That’s your only job right now. You understand?” Nash taps two fingers against his thigh, hunt mode engaged.
I nod. That’s a job I can do. An order I will never break.
Nash just gives a single, sharp nod and turns, already heading down the stairs to make the calls, a silent instrument of vengeance. Malachi gives my shoulder one last squeeze before following, leaving me alone in the hallway again.
I lean my head back against the cool drywall; the sound of the running shower is a dull roar in my ears. The plan is in motion. Trent is a dead man walking. The thought should be a relief, but my gut is still twisted in a knot. It’s too easy. Too simple.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a text from Nash confirming he’s on his way. Instead, it’s the Officers group chat.
NASH: At County General. Cops are crawling all over the place. Winston must have made the call the second she ran. Pickup is a no-go. He’s inside.
A fresh wave of fury washes over me, hot and sharp. I shove off the wall and drive my fist into the drywall; it gives with a soft crunch under the impact. Fucking Graves. He insulated Trent before we could even move. The one clean, simple act of justice is gone, stolen by a phone call and a badge.
The chat bubbles again. It’s Malachi.
MALACHI: Knox, Sloane’s on shift?
I hold my breath, watching the screen. A beat passes.
KNOX: Yeah. She’s there now.
Period. Nothing else. Ice where warmth should be.
My mind races, trying to see the play Malachi is about to make.
His brilliance in moments like this is why he’s president.
He doesn’t just see the obstacle; he sees the new weapon.
The chat bubbles again, and a slow, cold, dangerous smile spreads across my face.
MALACHI: Good. Tell her Trent’s a guest. We can’t touch him. But he doesn’t get to be comfortable. Tell her to make his stay... memorable.
I let out a short, sharp laugh. It’s not the justice I wanted, but it’s a different kind. A more creative kind. A brand of chaos only the girls could pull off. I can already picture Ruby’s gleeful, evil smile.
The silence in the hallway is different now. It’s not empty anymore. It’s filled with the promise of a very different, very specific kind of retribution.
The bathroom door opens, and Darla emerges.
She’s swallowed by the clean tee I left for her.
She’s clean, but the haunted look hasn’t been washed away.
Her hair drips onto the fabric, and she wraps her arms around herself.
A flinch crosses her face, and she tightens an arm against her side. My chest aches in sympathy.
My voice is low, certain, a vow carved out of something harder than steel. “You’re not going back there. You’re staying with me. Where I can keep you safe.”
The words seem to hit her like a blow, but in a way that knocks air back into her lungs instead of out. Her whole body jolts with a sharp inhale, her eyes wide.
“East…” Her voice cracks, and it’s the most broken sound I’ve ever heard. “My father—he won’t stop. He’ll come for me. And I’ll drag you all down with me.”
I shake my head, closing the distance between us until I can feel the trembling heat radiating from her body. “Let him come. He doesn’t get you back. Not after this. Not ever.”
Fresh tears well in her eyes, hot and bright, and she tries to swallow them down. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she whispers, the words laced with a shame that makes my gut clench.
“You’re not.” I crouch, leveling my gaze with hers, making sure she sees the absolute truth in my eyes. My presence needs to be solid enough for her to lean on. I take her cold, trembling hand in mine. “You’re mine to protect now. Ours. That’s it.”
I watch her absorb the words. Her body is still trembling, but something in her eyes shifts.
The pure terror recedes, replaced by a flicker of something fragile and new.
For the first time since she burst through that door, I think she might actually believe me.
And in the shattered quiet of this room, I know she’s not alone anymore.