Chapter 5
ASH
I wake up to a silence that feels engineered. Unnatural. Contained.
Where am I?
Oh, yeah, the GU Crue house. In the bedroom where I crashed last night.
We bailed on the “Angels & Demons” party because of the altercation between War and Crosby.
No point standing around and waiting for Beta House forces to rally.
Or for security to intervene. So, we all came back to the house the three of them—War, Jamie, and Killian—used to share, but where War now lives alone.
Last night, in a surly tone, War said living alone suits him.
I get that about him. But it’s interesting that when we left the party, he tossed Jamie the keys to the SUV and took a seat in Billie with me.
He told Jamie and Sawyer to meet us at the Crue river house unless they would rather just go home.
As if Jamie and Sawyer would trust War on his own with me.
Honestly, I could’ve just dropped War off at the Crue house and headed back to my dorm. Or to a different party. But what would’ve been the fun in that? Especially since, for once, he was inviting me over.
I sit up in the king bed with its oatmeal-colored Egyptian cotton sheets and duvet. The house is quiet in a stoic sort of way, appropriate for men who never flinch at violence—or anything else.
For a few seconds, I don’t move. I sit staring at the brick wall next to the bed where a slash of morning light exposes places where the mortar's uneven. The building is so old. The ceiling beam above me is thick, scarred steel—original, not decorative.
I have loved this place since the first time I set foot in it. It used to be some sort of manufacturing plant. There are no windows on the front, street-facing side of the building. But the back of the house looks out over the Tyne River which meanders along the east edge of the Granthorpe campus.
Originally, the derelict building sat empty. Then a couple years ago, the upstairs was converted into a modern loft apartment. It has giant vertical windows overlooking the river. When C Crue bought it to house their guys, they renovated the downstairs, too, and made it into another full apartment.
The lower level’s kitchen and living room have windows facing the water. And there’s an open, suspended staircase connecting the two floors.
Somewhere nearby, water rushes through pipes that run along the walls like exposed veins. Beyond that, faint but constant, is the sound of the river moving past the building outside—slow, dark, relentless.
When I rise from the bed, I realize I’m wearing War’s t-shirt. It’s black and soft from wear, stretched just enough to fit his massive frame, which means it hangs off me like a bad decision. The hem hits mid-thigh, and one shoulder is bared when I move.
I don’t remember agreeing to wear it, but I also don’t remember arguing, which feels… telling .
I got so drunk last night. And enjoyed it. Licking tingling lips, I confirm I’m still buzzed.
Glancing down, I find my silver pants are on—wrinkled and cold, but none the worse for having slept in them. Did I crawl into bed myself? Or was I placed there?
Barefoot, I leave the bedroom and head to the kitchen, which has a large white stone island I love.
Sawyer sits at the island, wrapped in an oversized sweater with both hands around a mug as though she’s siphoning fortitude straight from the caffeine. Morning light spills through the windows and catches in her hair, warming the steel-and-stone palette.
Sawyer looks up, and her eyes go immediately to War’s shirt. She smiles. “So that happened.”
I climb onto the stool. “No, no. I slept alone.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She takes a sip of coffee. “You don’t think wearing a guy’s t-shirt to bed means something?”
I glance down at myself. “I needed something to sleep in, and War’s the only guy who lives here now. I think he tossed it at me like I was a stray cat.”
“Is that right? Funny though that he keeps carrying you off with a hard body block to anyone who might try to prevent it. Used to be he only jumped in when you were in trouble and about to get hurt, but at our place, it wasn’t even that.
” She looks at me over her mug through strands of mussed caramel-colored hair.
“And you don’t seem too bothered by it.”
“Well, what do you expect? Can’t put Jamie in a position where he’d have to get in a fight with his friend.”
“Some girls might.”
“Yeah, but I’m not that girl. Gotta keep the peace as much as possible.
Also, I never did mind about the little things.
” My tone is light and teasing, but Sawyer stares at me blankly, not recognizing the signature line from an old action movie where a skinny girl reluctantly becomes a badass spy assassin.
She leans her elbows on the counter, tone curious. “He picks you up like you’re a wayward kitten. One that’s his responsibility. And no one else’s.”
A little sliver of satisfaction winds its way through me at the thought. “That’s definitely not how he sees it, I promise you.”
Sawyer raises her brows. “I’ve never seen him touch anyone else. Ever .”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“Once,” Sawyer continues, “I saw a girl who’d spent the night leave the house. He didn’t kiss or hug her goodbye. Didn’t even walk her down to her car. Just watched her leave and locked the door. Like she’d delivered a pizza or something. After she’d been with him all night. ”
I stare into my coffee as though it might offer an explanation. “It’s probably just his training. I get in more trouble. And cause my fair share of it. She’s probably better behaved. Which I’m sure he prefers.”
“He may say that… but his instinct is to grab you and, once he does, to hold onto you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Sawyer smiles. Not smug, but certain. “It means something to him.”
My stomach flips, traitorous and unhelpful. “I don’t know. We do seem to be drawn to each other. In my case, it’s like a bug to a zapper. Not likely to end well.”
Heavy footsteps sound overhead.
Slow. Deliberate. Substantial. Moving toward the stairs.
The house registers it as my brain does. With tensing shoulders, I glance up to watch War come down the steps.
Freshly showered. Hair damp and slicked back. Dressed in black joggers that hang low on his hips and a fitted t-shirt that clings to a sculpted chest. Damn, his body is impressive.
After our long night of drinking, he seems too sober and steady for this early in the morning. Apparently, War wakes up braced for mayhem.
His gaze flicks to me. Pauses. Drops to the shirt. Something unreadable tightens in his jaw before he turns to the fridge without comment.
Sawyer hides a small smile behind her mug.
War pulls out eggs, peppers, and cheese. He sets a pan on the burner, and sizzling fills the space where words might go.
Without turning around, he says, “Last night Bergmann claimed he’s been protecting you. From what? And when?”
The air shifts.
I straighten. “I can’t say. The only person who’s gotten aggressive with me in front of Crosby was Sawyer’s brother. And we all know Crosby wasn’t the one who intervened when Brad Allendale grabbed me at the Crue rave.”
War was actually the one who thwarted Brad’s attempted assault, which was undertaken to get his phone away from me before I erased an incriminating video of Sawyer.
“But Sawyer’s brother isn’t a threat anymore,” I say.
A part of me wonders whether my cousin or War, or both, had a hand in eliminating that menace. When War turns, he gives no hint of guilt. Instead, he ignores the mention of Brad Allendale and studies me with an intent gaze.
Something about him looks different. I realize it’s his eyes.
Because his face isn’t shadowed from looking straight down at mine, light shines directly on his face from several angles.
In reflected sunshine, his eyes are hazel like his uncle Connor’s.
The green and gold in War’s isn’t as bright as C’s, but the colors still add beautiful, almost animal, dimension to his dark brown irises.
War scrutinizes me, but with no focus on my looks. “Bergmann meant something. What?”
“I do not know.” I pronounce each word clearly and precisely, as though I’m talking to one of the kids whose unruly behavior I’m trying to curtail.
The monster in black sweats turns back to the range. “You’re wild. Does he have something on you? A secret he’s keeping for you? ”
“No.” Clucking my tongue with annoyance, I roll my eyes. “As if I’d be stupid enough to give someone like him—a random guy I’ve been on a couple dates with—ammunition to use against me with the police? I don’t need to go to C Crue summer camp to know better than that.”
“Who said anything about the cops?” War says dismissively.
A poke in my ribs causes me to cringe and look sharply over my shoulder.
My cousin, rumpled from sleep, points at me. “Summer camp? I’d like to see you emerge from a hole in the ground after ten?—”
“J.” War’s voice is a warning and admonishment all in one. “Bait.”
Jamie sits next to me, giving me the side-eye. “Is he right, Ashling? Are you trying to bait us into giving up details on the training?”
“No,” I say, but my lips curve into a guilty smirk.
I don’t like feeling like an outsider. Jamie and War weren’t even in the country most of the time that C, Sasha, and Scott were building their empire.
Also, C and Sasha are like extra older brothers to me now.
In a crisis, I’ve been called in to help, just like family.
So, why should Jamie and War know more than me about the Crue? Short answer: they shouldn’t.
Sawyer wrinkles her nose and shifts the discussion back to the bigger question. “Crosby was probably just making an empty threat, trying to draw Ash in.”
Jamie’s hand strokes Sawyer’s hair affectionately. “Maybe, but he hasn’t been all talk in the past.”
War adds butter to a pan. I love when things are cooked in butter instead of oil. He had better be making food for all of us, not just for himself. The pan hisses, and my stomach rumbles.