Chapter 13
Bastion
The city at night is always hungover. Even at two a.m., the buildings slump against each other like exhausted party guests, light bleeding from windows in lines that won’t stay straight.
I walk the sidewalk with my hands jammed in my pockets, collar up, head down, letting the wind smack my face until it goes numb.
This is my favorite part of the city, the border between the glitzy Council district and the part where nobody bothers to pick up the glass after it’s broken.
The only sound is the distant thump of some bass-heavy car and my own footsteps, a little too loud, a little too even. I like walking, but it’s not enough tonight. Nothing’s enough tonight.
I duck into the first bar that looks open and not expensive enough to be a trap.
The inside is low-lit and sticky. The bartender has a tattoo of a blackbird on one hand and an omega mark on her throat, which tells me she’s safe—she won’t recognize me from Royals Anonymous, or if she does, she’ll keep it to herself.
I order a whiskey and drink it like it’s a dare.
The bar television is playing a recap of Omega Selection Day on mute. Emery’s face flashes in a loop. First humiliated, then triumphant, then humiliated again, depending on how the commentator wants to spin it. The caption at the bottom says, “NEW ROYAL OMEGA: PRIDE OR PITY?”
I order a second drink before the first can hit bottom.
I could go home. I could go anywhere, really.
But I don’t, because the only thing waiting there is a grandfather who doesn’t know the meaning of “I’m tired,” and a phone filled with Councilors who think this is all some grand soap opera and not a car crash with my family name on it.
I thumb my phone, flipping through the racing app, looking for something to keep my hands busy.
And there it is. Midnight Run 85. The group thread is lighting up with the neon pulse of a half-dozen adrenaline junkies who’ve never heard the word “legacy” unless it was the name of a new high-performance coupe.
There’s a race on tonight. Of course there is.
It’s the only thing that runs on time in this city.
I stare at the whiskey until the glass goes blurry, then toss a few bills on the bar and slip out the side door.
Outside, the air is even colder, but it feels better. My car is parked two blocks away, because I hate paying for valet and because the walk gives me time to decide whether I’m about to do something very stupid or just regular stupid. The answer is always both.
The car—my car, not the family’s, not the one with bulletproof windows and a driver who never learned my name—is a two-door, matte gray, low to the ground and mean as a kicked dog.
I run a hand over the hood. The engine’s still warm from earlier.
I get in and let the car swallow the last of the night.
The group thread has the coordinates. Tonight’s race is in the warehouse district, same as always.
I drive there on autopilot and watch as the city lights smear into ribbons through the windshield.
Every red light is a suggestion. Every alley is a shortcut.
I tell myself it’s fine—I’m not that drunk, just steady enough to pass for sober, and anyway, this isn’t about winning.
It’s about burning off enough anger to keep from taking it out on someone who doesn’t deserve it.
By the time I arrive at the warehouse, the lot is already half-filled with cars.
Not the slick, chromed monsters from the Council side of town, but old machines, rebuilt and snarling.
I recognize a couple of them including Lucian’s blue beast, the moss-green hatchback that always smells like weed, the little yellow deathtrap from last summer’s circuit.
There’s a nervous energy in the air, thick with exhaust and the kind of testosterone that only comes out after dark.
I pull in and park. A few heads turn, but no one waves. Perfect.
Lucian ambles over, cigarette glowing like a firefly between his teeth. “Bass! Didn’t think we’d see you tonight. Thought you’d be busy prepping for the ‘pack family values’ tour.”
I flip him off, no smile. “Just needed to drive. Who’s in?”
He jerks his chin at the lineup. “All the usual idiots. And you, apparently. Course is tight tonight. Over the bridge, cut back at the cathedral, then sprint to the old stadium. First one to the east lot buys breakfast.”
I nod. “Standard.”
He squints at me, then lowers his voice. “You good, man? You look like death, but, like, the boring kind.”
“Never been better.” It sounds like the worst lie in history, but Lucian’s too polite to call me on it.
I’m not that drunk. And while I may be stupid, I’m not foolish. I’m fine to drive.
We walk to the starting line where the other drivers are already revving their engines. They’ve got their windows down and are blaring music. There are six cars in total, each one with a driver who has something to prove and nothing to lose.
Right at home then.
Someone’s rigged up a starting light with an old traffic signal perched on a crate at the end of the lot. The girl running it is barely out of college, eyes wild, arms wrapped in electrical tape. She counts us down with her fingers then hits the switch.
Green. The cars lurch forward in a chorus of engine and tire. I jam the accelerator. My seatbelt bites into my shoulder as the world flattens to a tunnel of speed and light. The city blurs by, nothing but shapes and motion, the rhythm of the traffic lights keeping time with my pulse.
First turn. The bridge. Lucian’s car hugs the inside, but I cut wide and late, taking the risk for the payoff. The back end fishtails, then catches, and I’m ahead for a second—just long enough to taste the lead before the yellow deathtrap screams past me on the straightaway.
Fuck yes. I smile. For the first time in weeks, I actually fucking smile.
Second turn. The cathedral. It glows white and cold in the dark.
Its spires rise like daggers against the sky.
The road here is narrow and slick with rain, but I know every crack and pothole.
I downshift, glide through the curve, and edge past the green hatchback, its driver howling something obscene through the open window.
Third leg. The final sprint. Here’s where it always goes bad for me.
The engine’s screaming, the city is nothing but streaks of gold and blue, and my hands are steady but my vision is starting to swim.
I try to focus on the road, but I see flashes of everything I’m running from.
My grandfather’s disappointed face. Ranier’s cold logic.
Even the stupid, glittery smile of the omega I’m supposed to hate but can’t stop thinking about.
The finish is a sharp left into the old stadium lot. I’m in second, maybe third, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the rush and the noise, the possibility that this time, the story ends differently.
But it doesn’t.
I hit the brakes too late at the final turn. The tires lock, the world spins, and I see the tail lights of Lucian’s car as it whips past and then—impact.
My front-end crunches into the guard rail. Metal shrieks and glass shatters. For a split second, there’s nothing at all. Not pain, not fear, just a perfect blankness.
Then reality comes screaming back in a flood: the hiss of coolant on the engine, the reek of burning oil, blood dripping into my eyes. My head slams forward, then back, and I taste copper and whiskey and something sharp.
Outside, the other cars screech to a halt. Doors open. Feet pound the pavement.
Lucian’s voice is first. “Jesus, Bass. You dead?”
I might wish I was after my family finds out.
I try to answer, but my throat’s full of blood. Instead I just choke out a laugh.
Hands wrench at the door, but it’s jammed. Someone smashes the window. Glass rains down over my lap. Two sets of arms haul me out, feet scraping the ruined metal. I collapse on the cold asphalt. Every part of me hurts, but it’s a distant, echoey thing, like the pain belongs to someone else.
Lucian kneels beside me. His pale face is lined with sweat. “You okay? Say something.”
I spit a tooth onto the ground and grin. “Breakfast is on you, asshole.”
He laughs, the sound shaky but real, and then helps me to my feet. My knees buckle, but I don’t fall.
Sirens blare in the distance, but nobody’s sticking around for that. The other racers are already gone, engines fading into the night.
Lucian gets me to the curb and sits me down. “You should go to the ER. You look like shit.”
I shake my head. “Can’t. They’ll call my grandfather. He’ll kill me twice.”
He hesitates. “Want me to call anyone?”
I think of Ranier, of Wyatt, of the Everhart house and all the ghosts waiting for me. I think of Emery, the look on her face when I told her she’d never win.
“Nah,” I say. “I’ll walk it off.”
He laughs again, then presses a napkin to my split eyebrow. The blood slows. The pain starts to make sense.
The city is waking up around us—delivery trucks rumble by, streetlights flicker, somewhere a church bell rings. I watch it all from the curb, feeling like I’m outside of myself, watching a stranger fuck up the one thing he’s good at.
Lucian claps me on the back, says something about catching up next week, and then he’s gone. I sit there for a while, watching the sun crawl up behind the buildings, the light turning everything a sickly shade of gold.
When I finally stand, every joint screams. My head throbs, my mouth tastes like blood and defeat, but I start walking anyway. I have nowhere to go, but that’s fine. That’s always been fine.
I reach into my jacket for my phone. The screen’s cracked, but the group thread is still there, a dozen new messages already roasting me for the crash. I thumb out a reply: Next time, I’ll bring the good car.
As I walk, the ache settles into something manageable. I feel the bruises blooming, the cuts on my hands, the sting in my ribs. But I also feel awake—more awake than I’ve been since before Omega Selection Day. The pain is honest. The pain is mine.
I walk until the city turns from gray to blue, then to gold, then to the color of regret. I keep going, one foot in front of the other, because that’s what you do when you’re a Silverwood. You carry the name. You keep moving.
And maybe, just maybe, you try again.
I’m not dead yet. That’s something.
But the thought of having to explain any of tonight to Ranier and Wyatt while in this state makes my feet freeze on the pavement. Fuck.
I turn and walk toward the hospital.