Chapter Twenty
I glide the Mustang through the narrow, potholed streets, the engine purring like a well-fed cat.
It’s late afternoon, barely 24 hours after Zayn showed up with the keys and gave me my prized possession back. The sun’s casting a golden glow on the fringes of Nottingham, where the lots are big and unmowed and the houses sagging with the weight of the world, and I’m cloaked in LJ’s baseball cap and oversized sunglasses. A ridiculous disguise, maybe, but it does the job.
On the seat next to me is a crumpled list of addresses. The homes of the people Zayn came to warn us about. The ones on the eviction notices.
Because this is my plan.
I got up early, left with the key LJ gave me, and no one had any right to stop me—not that they’d have noticed. I drove from one side of this county to the other, zigzagging, stopping at every ATM I can find: gas stations, drugstores, laundromats, wherever. Each time, I pull out just under the limit, and far less than $10,000. Small amounts Kimmy and her supervisor will never get flagged. Each time, the balance dwindles, but hardly making a dent—I’m still well above two million total, even with the growing stack of twenties stuffed in the passenger footwell.
The stops I make aren’t anything like Rob’s house or Guy’s house or even the house I grew up in. These are small, modest homes, weathered by time and a patchwork of paychecks unable to keep up on maintenance. They’re chain-link fences and weed-studded sidewalks.
But they’re also full of life. Pink trikes upended on the walkways, surrounded by scribbling drawings in chunky chalk lines. A patio set, worn but meticulously cleaned, with the remnants of birthday streamers and balloons still wound around the chair backs. A plywood sign with a hand-painted football helmet that proclaims GO SHERWOOD SPARTANS—MATTHIAS GRANT, #27 RUNNING BACK.
These are real people. The real heart of this place, no matter what Guy Gisbourne crows about in some goddamn campaign speech. And I’m not going to let them get kicked out.
I pull up to the next address, a small house with chipped paint and a swing set in the yard, and kill the engine. It looks quiet—kids not home from school, parents still at work, driveaway empty. Quickly, I thumb through the cash, pulling out the requisite bills—$1100, enough for the back taxes and then some. I grab one of the plastic bags I snagged at the Soop-R-Mart and nestle the money inside, tie a double knot, and slip out of the car.
I cross the lawn quickly, not quite running but not strolling in, either. My heart races as I go, but it’s not fear. It’s a rush, almost like the feeling of healing someone—still so strange to think about that—but lesser, more down-to-earth.
Three steps up to the front porch and I scan around for a hiding place. I end up tucking the bag behind a potted plant, just enough poking out so that it’s visible when you come up to the door.
No one sees me. And by the time I’m back in the Mustang, it’s like I was never there at all.
The Mustang winds up the familiar drive toward the mansion. Almost home , I think, and the thought takes me aback.
But it shouldn’t. I have a key now. This place is my home as much as any place ever has been—maybe more.
This place is mine, or at least it feels like it could be.
And I think I’m okay with that.
I throw the Mustang in park and walk inside, the air cool after the heat of the day. The door closes behind me with a satisfying click, and I pause for a second, savoring the quiet.
“Anybody home?” I call.
“Pool,” comes the reply, and I head out back.
It’s such a casual scene, like the whole world isn’t on fire around us.
Rob’s sitting with his feet dangling in the water, shirt off, sunglasses on, looking effortlessly cool. Will is perched on an Adirondack chair, flipping through some old magazine, while LJ stretches out on a chaise longue, eyes closed, and Tuck prods at the grill off to the side.
I don’t say anything at first, just stand there for a second, taking it all in. The normalcy of it. The simplicity. After a day spent handing out wads of cash in a stupid disguise, this scene feels almost surreal in how normal it is.
But then again, so does everything lately.
As I step fully outside, LJ’s eyes fly open, like he was just waiting for me to get back. He’s the first to reach me, his strong arms wrapping around my waist as he presses a soft kiss to my neck. I shiver involuntarily, still not quite used to the way he disarms me with his touch.
Then Tuck’s there, giving me a warm, lingering hug that reverberates with all the quiet excitement of his mind going a mile a minute. “Missed you,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I wasn’t gone that long,” I protest.
Will, not to be outdone, swoops in with a mischievous grin, planting a quick, teasing kiss on my lips. But before I can even respond, Rob’s there, pulling me away from Will and into him. His kiss is firm, possessive, and I melt into it for just a second before he pulls back, raising an eyebrow at me.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t run off on your own.”
I sigh, trying to keep my frustration in check, lest I get any prying questions. “If I’m going to stay here,” I say, meeting his eyes head-on, “you need to be okay with that. All of you do. You need to trust me.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, tension pulling taut between us. Rob stares at me, jaw clenched, but finally, he exhales.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But next time, at least tell someone you’re leaving, okay? Don’t make me sic LJ on you.”
“Hey,” LJ mutters. “I don’t take orders from him,” he adds, to me. I giggle.
Tuck, of course, is already shifting gears. “Now that you’re back, I’ve been thinking,” he says excitedly, “There’s so much more we can test with your power. I’ve been researching new techniques, and some exercises you can try to—”
“Maybe later,” I tell him, softening my refusal with a smile. “It’s been a long day.”
Will, always one to probe for information, raises an eyebrow. “Oh, has it? Of what?”
I give him a knowing look. “Girl shit. Getting my nails done. Buying tampons. You know. The usual.”
His face flickers with surprise, then realization that I’m bullshitting him, then a friendly scowl. “Little minx.”
I stick out my tongue and sink into a chair by the pool, listening to the sounds of the water and the easy banter around me.
Maybe it’s shady of me to refuse them the details. But I don’t want to fuck it up. The families need to be safe first, to get things squared away and secure. I want to be sure this scheme of mine actually worked before I let the guys in on what I’ve done.
I lean back in my chair, sipping a glass of water as I watch the guys bicker over how to start the grill. It’s like watching four giant predators circle their prey—tons of instinctual confidence, yet somehow no clue about something as simple as cooking over an open flame.
Will insists on using too much lighter fluid. Rob’s grumbling about getting the coals evenly spread. LJ is standing back, arms crossed, offering sarcastic commentary, while Tuck’s looking around for a meat thermometer and refusing to throw anything on there without one.
And here I am, just... observing. Feeling this strange sense of rightness settle into me, like something finally clicked into place.
And maybe it has. It feels so natural—the four predators, all so powerful in their own ways, all capable of destruction, action, intensity, and me, the one who can tune things back up. Knit the broken pieces back together.
We’re not traditional—God, are we not—but we’re right.
Before I can get too lost in my thoughts, a voice shouts from the entrance, cutting through barbecue discussion. We all turn at once.
“Is that Zayn?” Rob calls back. “We’re down here!”
A moment later, Zayn comes rushing in from the driveway, and he looks...bad. Worse than yesterday, even, the stress written all over his face. And, for the first time since I met him, he’s not wearing that damn khaki sheriff’s uniform. Just civilian clothes—jeans, button-down, sleeveless undershirt.
Will frowns, stepping forward. “What’s wrong?”
Zayn takes a panting breath, signals for a moment to catch it.
“Damn, did you run all the way here from Nottingham?” Rob says, but his joking demeanor melts away when he sees Zayn’s expression.
I scoot to the edge of my seat, then stand. Tuck and LJ hover in the background, waiting.
And Zayn sucks in another inhale.
“They fired me,” he says. “They fucking fired me. ”
Rob straightens, his expression sharpening. “What do you mean?”
“I mean they kicked me off the force, man.” Zayn almost yells it, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “I think they know.”