Chapter 24 Darla
Darla
Frankie’s loft is a chaotic sanctuary, thick with the scents of sage, wine, and the uninhibited female laughter that could probably power a small city.
We’re sprawled across her worn velvet furniture, a chaotic assembly of leather and lace, surrounded by half-eaten bags of chips and empty wine bottles.
It’s the aftermath of a successful military operation, and we are the victorious soldiers.
“I’m telling you,” Ruby says, practically vibrating with glee from her spot on the floor, “when Sloane told me Knox was actually talking to the clown doll, trying to reason with it, I almost died. I almost gave up the whole ghost right then and there.”
Sloane groans, pulling a pillow over her face. “He’s emotionally scarred for life. He whispered ‘It’s not real’ to himself for twenty minutes before he went to sleep last night.”
“Maggie, your move with James’ alarm clock was pure evil genius,” Candace says, a real, easy smile on her face. “He asked Malachi this morning if he thought the clubhouse was experiencing a ‘temporal distortion’.”
“And Malachi!” Candace adds, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “He’s so convinced his apartment is haunted that he actually asked East to check the wiring, trying to find the source of the ‘ghostly child’s laughter’ he keeps hearing in the vents. He’s this close to calling an exorcist.”
We all howl. Maggie just takes a serene sip of her wine from the armchair she’s claimed. “He needed to be humbled. It was for his own good.”
The laughter is a balm, a necessary release after the suffocating tension of the last few days. Here and now, surrounded by these fierce, funny, broken, and beautiful women, I don’t feel like an outsider. I feel like I’m home.
“Okay, okay, but what about East?” Ruby asks, turning her bright, curious gaze on me. “Darla, you were the tip of the spear on that one. Has he figured it out yet? Is he losing his mind?”
The question sends a jolt of heat through me, sharp and immediate. The memory of this morning in the kitchen crashes over me, so vivid it’s like I’m still there.
His hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in.
The playful energy had vanished, replaced by something raw and electric.
His voice, a low murmur against my skin, promising a meticulous revenge.
I remember the feel of his mouth on my neck, a possessive, branding heat that was meant to erase a bruise left by another man.
The way my hands had flown up to fist in his shirt, holding on as he whispered threats that sounded like promises.
My head had fallen back against the cabinets with a soft thud in the sudden, charged silence.
A broken sound escaped my lips—his name.
I remember the shock of his fingers, the slide and press and relentless circles that had me unraveling.
I remember shattering against his hand, and the look in his eyes when he lifted his fingers to his mouth, tasting me with a look of pure, savage ownership.
The memory makes my stomach clench, a slow, dangerous warmth pooling low in my belly.
I come back to the present with a start, my cheeks flushed. All of them are watching me.
“Oh, he knows it was me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. A slow, genuine smile spreads across my face. “I’m not worried about his revenge. He’ll be creative.” The words are out before I can stop them, laced with a thrill I don’t hide. “I’m actually looking forward to it.”
Ruby lets out a low whistle. “Ooooh, I like this energy. This is a whole new Darla.”
“She’s not wrong,” Sloane adds, her voice quiet. “Payback is definitely coming. Knox has been organizing… things… in the garage. I think we need to be prepared.”
“Let them try,” Ruby says with a dismissive wave. “They’re cute when they’re plotting.”
Frankie, who has been quietly sketching in the corner, looks up. Her gaze is different. It’s old and knowing, seeing far too much. She sees the heat I’m trying to hide; the memory playing behind my eyes.
“Darla,” she says, her voice casual, “come help me find the good tequila. Ruby’s not responsible enough for it.”
Ruby squawks in protest as I get up and follow Frankie to the small kitchenette. Frankie doesn’t look for tequila. She just leans against the counter and looks at me, her head tilted.
“There’s less chaos in your head tonight,” she says softly. “But a different kind of storm. It has a name, doesn’t it?”
I look down at my hands, my heart hammering. She knows. Of course she knows. “I don’t know what it is, Frankie.”
“Don’t you?” Her voice is gentle. “You’re not afraid of his fire. Maybe that’s because you recognize it.”
I think of the way he held back in the kitchen, the way his promise of revenge was all about my pleasure. Frankie is right. It’s a fire, but for once in my life, I’m not afraid of being burned. A wave of emotion so strong it makes my throat tight. “It’s… new,” I whisper.
Frankie just nods with a small, sure smile on her face. “Good. New is good for you.”
Just then, Sloane drifts into the kitchenette, her own wineglass empty. She stops when she sees us and gives a small, hesitant smile, as if she’s not sure she’s allowed in this private moment.
Her hesitation is clear; she’s always on the edge, a part of the group yet separate. That loneliness is familiar. It was a feeling I lived with for seven years. “Hey,” I say, offering her a warm smile, an invitation. “Taking a break from the chaos?”
Sloane laughs, a small, relieved sound, but her shoulders are still tense. “Just for a second. It’s... a little loud out there.”
Frankie turns, her gaze softening as she looks at Sloane.
She doesn’t grab the tequila. She just leans against the counter.
“You don’t have to hover, you know,” Frankie says, her voice soft, but with that familiar, unnerving certainty.
“You’re always standing at the edge of the room, like you’re waiting for someone to ask you to leave. ”
Sloane’s face flushes. “I’m not… I just…”
“It’s okay,” Frankie cuts her off, her voice gentle.
“I’m just saying you can stop. You’re part of this circle now.
The energy has… settled. You belong here, Sloane.
” She looks from me to Sloane, her gaze sharp and fiercely protective.
“And we protect what belongs to us. All of us. We’re fighting Darla’s battle.
We fought for Candace. If a storm comes for you, we’ll fight that one, too. That’s just how this works.”
Sloane just stares at her, her mask of cool composure completely shattered.
Her throat works, and she blinks, her eyes suddenly bright.
She doesn’t say thank you. She just nods, a single, jerky movement.
I watch her, and my heart aches with recognition.
She’s not just quiet. She’s been alone for a long, long time. I know exactly what that looks like.
Frankie, her point made, finally turns and grabs the tequila bottle. “Now,” she says, her tone bright again. “Let’s go before Ruby tries to light something on fire.”
We rejoin the group, but the mood shifts as the initial high of the prank recap fades.
Sloane is the one who says it, her voice quiet but clear, still a little shaken from Frankie’s words. “So, the transport. The guys said Chuck gave them a timeline. We have a few days.”
The laughter dies. The real war is back in the room.
“So what do we do?” I ask, my voice firmer than I expect.
“We get ready,” Candace says, her expression grim. “We gather intel. Ruby, you’re on the brunch circuit. Get us names. Anyone connected to the Vassallo Foundation or my mother.”
“On it,” Ruby says, her usual sparkle replaced by a cold fire.
“Frankie,” Candace continues, “you know the city’s underbelly better than anyone. We need to know where a transport like that could be staged. Warehouses, private airstrips, anything.”
Frankie nods, her pen tapping a strange, rhythmic pattern against her sketchbook. “I’ll put out my feelers. The normal ones. But I’ll talk to Arden, my sister, and Leo. Between the shadows, the spirits, and the security feeds, something will talk back.”
Sloane shifts beside Maggie, her fingers picking restlessly at a loose thread on the couch cushion. Her usual calm is gone, replaced by a nervous, fidgety energy that makes my chest ache for her. She’s remembering something. Something she hasn’t shared.
Candace looks at me, her voice hard. “Darla, you and I… we’re the bait and the backup. We know what these girls are feeling. We know what to look for.” Her eyes meet mine, and in that moment, the bond between us solidifies.
“I’ll handle the medical,” Sloane adds quickly, her focus snapping back into a sharp, professional line, her voice grateful for the clear, defined task.
“When you get them out, they’re going to need help.
I’ll have a safe, clean place ready. Away from any hospitals.
” She’s claiming her role, finding her strength in what she does best. Healing.
Maggie, who had been listening quietly, speaks up. “Your men will do everything they can to stop that truck. But you girls… you’re the ones who are going to make sure those girls have a safe place to land when the smoke clears.”
Her words hang in the air, a heavy, powerful truth.
As I listen to them plan, the lie I carry feels heavier than ever.
I think of East, and my throat goes tight.
He’s putting everything on the line for me, for a version of the story that isn’t even true.
And I can’t fix it. The guilt is a sharp, constant ache.
But the thought of telling him, of watching the truth shatter the fragile trust we’re building, is even more terrifying. So I stay silent. For now.
We spend the rest of the night talking, planning, and holding each other up.
It’s a war council held over wine and leftover chips, a sisterhood forged in the fires we’ve all had to walk through.
As I sit here surrounded by them, I know that no matter what comes next, I am not alone. I have found my army.