Chapter 31 Sterling
Sterling
Dawn days later
It’s been raining for days now. A violent crack of thunder shakes the shack, jostling me out of sleep. For a moment, I stay still, keeping track of the world by instinct.
Wind howls against the cliffs. Rain spits sideways against the battered walls. A shore away, the ocean roars. The shack groans when a gust slams into it, the old bones of the place rattling under the strain.
I sit up, every nerve on fire. Beside me, Elle stirs, reaching for me automatically. Trusting me to catch the danger she can’t see yet. I catch her hand, kiss her hair, and rise out of the cot without a word.
Another slam of wind rattles the glass. Water leaks in at the edges of the warped windows, trickling like blood down the walls.
Shit, this isn’t good. This isn’t survivable.
I pull on clothes quickly. Elle’s slipping on clothes too—just my flannel—while I hand her my coat to wear on top.
Elle’s voice cuts through the storm, rough with sleep but worried. “Sterling? What’s wrong?”
“Storm’s coming in hard,” I say. “We need to go.”
She sits up, the flannel slipping off her shoulders, even when she buttons them up. Our eyes meet the same time lightning strikes.
“We’ve ridden out storms before,” she says, trying to soothe me. “This place can take it.”
The next gust nearly rips the roof off. The wood walls scream in protest. I move fast, going to her, steadying her even as the floor shifts under us. “I’m not letting this place bury you,” I say, low and sharp. “Put the coat on. We’re going.”
Her fingers brush my jaw. I want to lean into it, but I can’t. “I don’t want to leave, Sterling. This place… It’s ours.”
I shake my head. “Not if it kills you.”
A beam snaps above us. I pull her down and cover her just as debris crashes close by, splintering across the floor.
She stares up at me, eyes wide but alive. I cup her face. My hands won’t stop shaking. “We’re going,” I say. “Now.”
Slipping on her coat, she opens her mouth to argue.
Then her wide eyes dart to the ceiling, water bursting through the seams. She changes her mind, nodding and quickly grabbing things—the journals, the mask, the violin.
The pieces of my past. I stuff them into my coat with rough hands.
She grabs it all to tie it up by the sleeves and holds it in her arms.
I lift her into mine, then kick the door wide open and carry her out.
We stumble into the storm. Rain slashes sideways. The wind pushes like it’s got a grudge.
I get her into the Valkyrie, slam the door, and tear around to the driver’s side, my whole body thundering with haste.
As soon as I can, I hit the gas. The wheels grip mud and loose sand. I peel out without a destination, anywhere far away from the death pressing in on all sides.
Through the rearview mirror, I can see the shack shrinking behind us, falling apart and collapsing in on itself.
My eyes flash to the right. Elle’s there. Curled in the passenger seat, soaked and shivering. Clutching my coat, shivering but safe. That’s all that matters.
The Valkyrie tears through the flooded roads. We need shelter. Now. But where the hell do I take her? What’s left that’s safe for us?
My phone rings. I glance at it. Unknown number. No time to think. I punch speaker.
Damon’s voice goes through. “Sterling—”
“Silver,” Stan cuts in. “About damn time, you slowpoke.”
Damon talks over him, “We’ve been expecting you.”
“How the hell did you know?” I snap, my knuckles white on the wheel.
“I’ve been keeping tabs on you,” Damon says. “Since January via satellite. I was keeping an eye on the storm that was headed toward you. It’s not like you to miss something that pertinent, Sterling.”
My grip on the wheel tightens. I force out a breath. Focus narrows. “You had eyes on me?” I ask, voice flat.
“Through our mutual contact too,” Damon says.
I grit my teeth. “That contact went dark on me. That piece of shit—”
“—had to hide,” Damon interrupts. “I’ve got it covered. I can ensure their safety and welfare.”
Relief punches through me. But I force myself not to react.
“We’re at your safe house,” Stan chirps.
“That got shot to tell,” I say.
“Get to the safe house,” Damon says over Stan’s laugh. “We’ll meet you here. You and Elle are not on your own anymore.”
The line clicks off. I drive harder into the wet dirt roads, the storm battering the Valkyrie.
Elle’s hand finds mine across the console. My chest breathes evenly from the simple touch. The world around us might be falling apart. But I know the only thing I need to protect is right here beside me.
***
We drive through the soaked backroads, the Valkyrie’s engine roaring against the storm.
It feels like forever before the safe house comes into view.
The front facade that I left behind was tattered and riddled with bullet holes, thanks to Lix.
But now it’s all fixed up, more discreet than before, with an all-black exterior.
I pull up hard, killing the engine. Stan throws the front door open, waving one arm wildly. “Took you long enough!” he shouts over the rain. “I was starting to think you were having another one of your broody breakdowns out there, Silver.”
Ignoring him, I leap out, run to Elle, and lift her from the passenger seat. She’s still clutching my coat close. I sprint for the door with her in my arms.
Stan steps aside, dramatically sweeping his arm like a doorman at a goddamn hotel. “Welcome back to your safe house,” he says with a grin. “Renovated by yours truly with a bit of help from the newlyweds.”
Inside, it’s warm and dry. I place Elle on the couch. Black leather squeaks under her, while I look around. My brows furrow. They didn’t change much of how I left the place I called home for the longest. There’s more furniture, more food on the counter too. That’s about it.
Kayla walks up to us, her mouth twitching like she’s fighting a smile. She tosses a towel at me without a word. Then she walks past me to talk to Elle, checking on her. Seeing if she needs anything.
Damon leans against the kitchen table, arms crossed, looking every bit like the embodiment of dominating control. His gaze pins me the second I step up to him.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Storm,” I grunt.
He nods once, no apology needed from either side. His attention flicks to Elle tucked against his wife’s arm. I meet Elle’s eyes and I must not realize how worried I look because she flashes me a tired but warm smile. “I’m fine, Sterling, only a little wet,” she reassures me.
But Stan’s there, sitting beside her, grinning like an idiot. “You good, babe?” he asks. “No lingering trauma from the storm or Sterling? Need me to warm ya up?”
Elle quietly chuckles under her breath, shaking her head and hugging my bundled coat tighter against her chest. Kayla hands Elle a thick hoodie and some other clothes to replace her soaked ones. “Let’s get you into some warm and clean clothes, Elle,” Kayla says. “You’re still soaked.”
She leads Elle into a room to change, and Stan’s talking a mile a minute about adding gym equipment in here to avoid getting “muscle atrophy.” Like fucking hell I’ll let him put his shit in my safe house.
But I sigh and stay standing, muscles tight only a little.
Elle’s safe. We’re home. My eyes are locked on the bedroom door where Elle went, even when Damon blocks my line of sight.
“Sterling,” Damon says, voice deep. “Focus.”
Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away. Damon pushes off the table, already all business.
“We’ve got a man on the inside. He told us to move fast,” he says. “The gala’s in a couple of weeks. We hit Clo where it hurts before then—strain her relations, sabotage some deliveries—and then deal the final blow at the event.”
Stan snorts from the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets as if he owns the place. “Look at you, Damon,” he says. “Ending a romantic, unnecessary two-month honeymoon by playing drug warlord against mommy dearest.”
He tosses a can of soup on the counter. Starts opening it with a pocketknife with the precision of someone with paws than hands. Kayla groans and mutters “weaponized incompetence” and makes him do it right.
Stan keeps blabbering, this time at Kayla. “By the way, I’m still pissed that it took so long to track you both down. God, the things I saw…” He shudders. “You two should come with a warning label.”
Kayla smirks, tossing back the pocketknife at his head. He catches it by the handle one-handed, flicking it closed, still grinning like the arrogant bastard he is. “Not my fault you walked into our villa uninvited,” Kayla says, smiling.
“You know what?” Stan winks. “I regret nothing.”
Elle’s laugh carries through the room like a siren song, returning to the space with her warmth. Seeing her feels like oxygen pumping back into my brain.
I turn to her, about to walk to where she is. But Damon levels me with a look. I frown and stay put.
He taps his laptop, pulling up an encrypted chat window. “Jade,” he says. “Mother’s distant old friend. I’ve been trying to contact her since we got back.”
The name snaps my attention sharp. I know Jade’s the woman who paints all of the portraits Clo hangs on the walls. She’s always treated them like they’re treasure.
“Lix knows her well. He managed to get through to her, and she finally reached out to me,” Damon explains. “Clo uses some of Jade’s paintings to launder money. I expect her to do the same through the gala’s silent auctions.”
He clicks through a few photographs. I stare at the screen. Art catalogues, auction sheets, donation manifests. I take it all in.
“Jade didn’t know at first,” Damon adds. “Lix knocked on her door, so to speak. Now she knows and she’s more than willing to help.”