17. Angel
The flat is too quiet. It’s the kind of silence that has teeth, gnawing at the edges of my nerves while the clock on the kitchen wall ticks away the seconds like a countdown.
I’m sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a thick wool blanket that smells like Oliver’s laundry detergent, staring out the window at the London skyline.
The sun dipped below the horizon over six hours ago, leaving the city in a bruised purple twilight.
I’m not stupid. I grew up in a clubhouse surrounded by men who speak a language of violence and silence. When Ghost and Shade shared that look over the map with Oliver—a look of cold, calculated intent—I knew. I knew they weren’t going out for a late-night walk.”
They went to find Brian.
I should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Or horror that the man I once thought was a charming escape is likely taking his last breaths in some dark corner of this city. But all I feel is a hollow, crystalline numbness. Brian didn’t just hurt me; he extinguished something.
If Ghost and my brother are out there balancing the scales, I won’t be the one to stop them.
The front door lock clicks. I stiffen, my heart hammering against my ribs, until the door swings open and the heavy, familiar presence of the Halos fills the small entryway.
They look rugged. Disheveled. There’s a frantic, dark energy rolling off them, like they’re vibrating from an adrenaline crash.
Shade’s knuckles are split and raw, and there’s a dark splash on his grey hoodie that I don’t need to identify.
Oliver looks the worst of all—his face is pale, his eyes wide and haunted, the clinical detachment of a med student stripped away to reveal a boy who just saw behind the curtain of the world.
Ghost doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look at the others. His eyes find mine instantly, scanning me for any sign of distress, and then he’s across the room in three long strides.
“Angel,” he rasps. His voice is a low, dangerous growl, his clothes smelling of cold air, iron, and something acrid. He reaches out, his large hand cupping the back of my head, and he doesn’t ask—he just guides me. “Bedroom. Now. We have a flight in six hours.”
“Ghost—”
“Not now, baby,” he murmurs, his tone hard but his touch incredibly gentle. He practically herds me down the hallway, closing the door on the heavy silence of the living room.
He doesn’t talk about where they were. He doesn’t tell me what they did.
He just helps me out of my robe and into the bed, his movements efficient and tense.
When he slides in beside me, he’s still wearing his t-shirt, his body heat radiating like a furnace.
He pulls me back against his chest, his arm draped over my waist like a heavy iron bar.
“Sleep,” he commands.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in months, the shadows in the corner of the room don’t look like monsters. They just look like shadows.
The morning arrives with the grey, misty persistence of a typical London dawn. The apartment is a flurry of quiet movement—suitcases being zipped, passports being checked, the heavy thud of boots on hardwood.
I find Oliver in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee that he’s staring into like it holds the secrets of the universe. Shade and Ghost are in the hallway, loading the last of my bags.
I walk up to him, and for a second, we just stand there. My best friend. The person who kept me sane in a city that felt like an alien planet.
“Ollie,” I whisper.
He looks up, and the haunted look in his eyes softens just a fraction. He sets the mug down and pulls me into a tight, desperate hug. I bury my face in his shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking. “For everything. For the late nights, for the shitty takeout. And... for saving my life. I literally wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for you.”
Oliver pulls back, holding me at arm’s length.
He looks at the bruises on my neck, then back at my eyes.
“I’d do it a thousand times over, Angel. You know that.”
He glances toward the hallway, where the low rumble of Ghost’s voice drifts in.
“Those guys... they’re different. But they love you. In their own terrifying, lethal way.”
“I know,” I say, and for the first time, I think I actually mean it.
“I’m going to finish school,” he says, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through. “And once I’ve got that piece of paper, I’m flying to California to see you. I expect a guest room with a view of the ocean and a very large drink.”
“You’ve got it,” I promise, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, Oliver. You’re family now. The Halos don’t forget their own.”
“Good to know,” he mutters, though he looks like a little terrified prospect.
“Come on, sis! Let’s go!” Shade calls from the door.
I take one last look around the flat. This place was supposed to be my fresh start.
It was supposed to be the place where I grew up and moved on from the leather and the dust and the ghost of a man who didn’t want me.
London hasn’t been bad—I loved the museums, the rain, the way the history felt alive in the cobblestones.
But it never became home. It was just a waiting room.
We leave the apartment and head for Heathrow. The drive is silent, the city blurring past the windows in a smear of red buses and grey stone.
The airport is a chaotic mess of travelers, but Ghost and Shade move through the crowds like sharks, people instinctively parting to let them through. We board the plane, and as the engines roar to life, I feel a strange, fluttering sensation in my chest.
I’m going home.
I look over at Ghost. He’s already buckled in, his head back against the seat, eyes closed. He looks exhausted, the lines around his mouth deeper than I remember.
I still don’t know where we stand. I don’t know if the man I love is the same man who rejected me at Onyx, or if the trauma of the last few days has just shifted the world on its axis.
Part of me is terrified that once the adrenaline wears off and we’re back in the California sun, he’ll look at me and see the child again.
But then, as the plane tilts upward and the wheels leave the English soil, Ghost’s hand finds mine. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his fingers interlock with mine, a grip so firm and certain it leaves no room for doubt.
I lean my head against his shoulder, watching the clouds swallow the jagged edges of London.
I’m leaving the girl I tried to be behind in the rain. I don’t know what’s waiting for me at the clubhouse—I don’t know how my dad will react, or how the club will change—but for the first time in my life, I’m not running away.
I’m just going back to where I belong.