Chapter Twelve
THE NEXT FEW weeks blur together in the kind of calm that feels borrowed—like the world has pressed pause just long enough for us to breathe again. We arrived in early August, and the trees show proof that the end of September is nearing.
For the first time in what feels like years, there’s no running, no screaming, no explosions. Just the soft hum of the forest that surrounds the Compound and the distant crash of the river somewhere beyond the tree line.
Arnie took off two days after we got here.
The forty-eight hours before that, he was basically welded to Hazel.
Don’t think I saw either of them once, unless it was by accident—and even then, it was just her hair disappearing around a corner with him trailing behind.
When he finally surfaced, he said he was heading back to Tacoma to get a jump on the intel trail.
Gavin’s network left fingerprints all over the state, and Arnie’s the kind of bastard who can lift them clean with a keyboard and a cup of coffee.
He borrowed Corver’s car since we’ve got Gunnar’s truck for transport anyway, and drove north before the rest of us were awake.
Said he’d hole up in his “office.” That’s what he calls the bunker he built under a fake business front—a full floor of servers, screens, and enough firewalls to keep God out if He came knocking.
Every inch of it is wired into someone’s secrets.
Each room runs a different operation—some he monitors, some he manipulates, and a few he’s already dismantled just to make a point.
Before he left, he tried to talk Hazel into going with him.
She told him she wouldn’t leave Surry. I respect the hell out of that—her loyalty, her fight—but part of me wishes she’d gone anyway.
Not because I want her gone. She’s good people.
She brings light into this place. But if I could pull any of them out of the blast radius before Gavin’s ghost starts breathing again, I would.
It’d take two names off my worry list. And I’m running out of room on that list as it is.
We’ve only checked in without construction foreman a few times, but he said that lock down is running smoothly. So we haven’t talked to him the past week. At least the business is working as it should.
Now, each morning I wake before everyone else.
Habit. Years of staying alive by being first on my feet.
The air is cool when I step out onto the back terrace, mist curling off the grass and rolling through the gardens.
From here, I can see the first slice of sunlight breaking through the pines, painting the old stone walls gold.
Somewhere below, I hear Bridget humming to herself in the kitchen—her accent floating up like a prayer.
By the time I wander back inside, Surry’s usually there. Her hair is always tied up in that messy knot that somehow still makes her look like sin itself. She’s wearing one of my shirts most mornings now, pretending it’s convenience, pretending she doesn’t notice that I notice.
She does.
She just doesn’t want to admit how much she likes the way I look at her in it.
“Coffee?” she asks every morning, like it’s not already sitting in front of me, black and steaming.
“Only if you’re having some, Siren,” I answer, every single time. Because there is not a thing in this world I want to do without her anymore.
It makes her roll her eyes—but she smiles while she does it.
Joshua and Gunnar have taken over part of the back field, building some kind of outdoor gym out of wood and concrete blocks. I think they know that there is an indoor gym, but I won’t spoil their fun.
They train every afternoon until sweat glistens on their backs and the air smells like pine and iron. I think it started as a way to burn off nerves, but now it’s a ritual—controlled violence against the ghosts that won’t stop chasing us.
Juniper pretends she’s just out there to “check their form,” but she’s not fooling anyone.
She leans against the fence, sunglasses perched low on her nose, pretending to scroll her phone while her eyes track every flex and movement Joshua makes.
She ended up bringing a sun tanning chair out there after a few days so she could “sun bathe” while they worked out.
He knows it, too—the smug bastard. He moves more slowly when she’s watching, deliberate, like he’s showing off for her alone.
It’s all silent, unspoken, but the air between them hums like static.
And Surry… she drifts between all of it.
Helping Bridget bake bread one minute, walking barefoot through the gardens the next. Every now and then, she’ll stop and just stand there, her eyes closed, breathing like she’s trying to remember what peace feels like. Watching her do that wrecks me a little more each time.
At night, the house glows with amber light. Everyone gathers somewhere—the long dining table, the fire pit outside, the sitting room that smells faintly of whiskey and old leather tangled with coal. I don’t think any of us expected to find something like this in the middle of chaos.
Family.
Blood or not, that’s what it’s starting to feel like.
Surry doesn’t say much in these moments.
She listens. Laughs when she forgets to be guarded.
Sometimes she catches me watching her and pretends not to notice.
But she always blushes. It brings peace to my soul when I see her be herself.
I never got to see how she acted pre-all this shit.
But now it feels like I am truly seeing her.
Bridget decided tonight that we all need a “proper Irish meal,” her words said with that thick Irish bite, like food made in her kitchen can fix more than hunger.
The smell hits long before the food does: garlic, rosemary, butter, and something seared to absolute perfection. By the time we all sit down at the massive oak table outside, the sun is lowering just enough to set everything in honey hued light.
The chairs are heavy, carved from the same dark wood, with soft cream cushions that make you want to stay for hours. The clinking of silverware mixes with the murmur of conversation, the sound of wine being poured, and Bridget fussing at anyone who dares to skip seconds.
Surry sits to my left. Her hand keeps brushing my arm—accidentally, she’d claim.
I don’t buy it.
I can feel the tension in her with every brush of skin.
The worry for her family. The way she keeps checking her phone even when there’s been almost no word since we arrived.
Security is what we all say. We are keeping them and us safe.
But every time she does, I want to reach over and take it from her, to remind her she’s safe now.
But I know better. She needs to hold on to something that feels like control.
So instead, I settle for letting my knee rest against hers beneath the table, solid and steady. A quiet reminder that she’s not alone.
Dinner stretches on with the easy kind of noise that fills the silence between strangers-turned-family. The long wooden table glows under the string lights Bridget insisted be hung earlier, and the air smells like roasted garlic, butter, and the faintest trace of wood smoke.
Joshua and Richie argue over who drinks faster, their laughter rolling across the courtyard like thunder.
Juniper, seated between them, keeps egging Joshua on—“Go on then, Slater, prove it!”—clinking her glass against his until Bridget threatens to take the bottle away.
Joshua only grins wider, and Juniper looks downright pleased with herself, her cheeks flushed and her curls wild from the evening breeze.
Hazel and Alisha are whispering behind their hands, giggling over Gunnar, who sits at the far end of the table, pretending not to notice but clearly loving the attention. He keeps that stoic face, but the corner of his mouth twitches every time Alisha’s laugh hits a higher note.
Corver, as usual, has his phone half-hidden beneath the table, the glow lighting his jawline as he scrolls through encrypted messages.
But even he can’t completely tune out the chatter.
When Hazel leans in to share some gossip about one of Bridget’s staff—something about a secret boyfriend in town—Corver actually snorts.
A rare sound, quick and quiet, but enough to make the others stare at him like they’ve spotted a unicorn.
And through it all, Bridget laughs so loud it echoes off the trees, her joy filling the courtyard like a hymn. It’s infectious—the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’ve earned a place here. Like maybe, just maybe, you belong.
The sky deepens from gold to violet. The air cools, the first hint of autumn curling around us. Somewhere in the house, someone has music playing faintly—a mix of old records Bridget keeps in the study. The crackle of vinyl drifts through the open doors, soft and imperfect.
And that’s when it happens—this quiet, accidental shift.
I look over and see Surry watching the sunset, her chin resting in her palm, eyes soft and far away. The song changes. A low, haunting female voice fills the air, smoky and electric.
I put a spell on you... because you’re mine.
I know that song. I think everyone has heard at least one version of it. Don’t know who sings this one, but the voice grabs hold of me.
I glance back at her, and she’s still staring at the horizon like she can’t hear it—or maybe she’s pretending not to. Her lips part, barely moving with the words, and my chest tightens. The song feels like her. Wild. Dangerous. Inevitable.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and trace a finger over her wrist, just a light touch. She startles, then looks up at me. I don’t say anything, but I know she sees it in my eyes. The claim. The promise. The spell, whatever it is, has already been cast.