Chapter 8 #2
Mostly, I don’t believe any of it in the raw hours, but the body keeps time through small comforts, a hot coffee in the morning, a blanket folded across a cot, a hand that doesn’t flinch when the past bleeds into the present.
By the time dawn casts a pale light over the yard, I’m fueled by caffeine and something darker. I didn’t sleep much, but that’s nothing new. The compound lies in a thin hush. The shelter’s lights burn low in the distance, warm against the gray.
The world acts like it’s steady, but the night doesn’t go away that easily.
It settles in the quiet realization that safety isn’t just one thing.
For him, maybe it’s four walls and a locked door.
For me, it’s proximity. Control. The illusion that I can keep what matters close enough so I won’t lose it.
I hate that I want to trust Carter. I hate even more that trust is already taking root in my mind.
I fold the ledger shut, fingers tracing Alex’s name, and for the first time in a long time, I feel direction.
We have work to do. The Vultures don’t rest. Neither will we.
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when Carter walks into the clubhouse, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, salt, gun oil, and clean soap clinging to him like a second skin. The air still carries last night’s tension along with coffee grounds and leather.
He smells like exertion and discipline.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, breath still controlled despite the workout.
“Barely,” I answer without looking up, though I’m watching every movement in the reflection of the window. The rhythm of his breathing. The way his hands flex once before going still.
He pours coffee like he owns the room, steam curling between us. “Are you always this friendly before noon?”
“Only with people who don’t drag cartel hitmen to my door.”
A small smirk pulls at his mouth, restrained. “Noted.”
He leaves, boots deliberate against the polished concrete.
I find him a few minutes later in the guest room. Carter sits shirtless on the edge of the bed, white gauze stark against his shoulder, the bandage already faintly stained. His dog tag rests against his chest, the chain catching the light. His jaw is tight, posture straight, even while wounded.
I sit in the chair across from him, opening the first aid kit between us. The silence lingers, but it's not uncomfortable, just heavy with things neither of us is saying.
"You always watch people this hard?" Carter finally asks.
"Only when they might get me killed," I reply, but my tone's softer than the words.
"Then you should've stopped watching me weeks ago."
"Probably."
I lean back, studying the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curl once into his thighs before flattening again. "Why'd you really go to the cemetery? The morning I found you at Alex's grave."
His hands still, resting on his thighs. "Rebel."
“No deflecting. Not today. You got shot while protecting me. I patched you up. Now you owe me honesty." I cross my arms. "Why do you go there every month?"
He's quiet for so long, I think he won't answer. "Debt."
"Debt to who?"
"Alex." He stares at the floor between his boots. "I go there every month. Leave flowers. Make sure the site's maintained. Talk to him like he can hear me. It's..." His voice roughens. "It's the least I can do."
"The least you can do for what?" I lean forward. "You told me he saved your life. That's not a debt, Carter. That's a gift."
"Gifts come without strings." His jaw works. "Debts come with interest."
The way he says it makes my stomach twist. "What does that mean?"
He finally looks up, and the raw pain in his eyes steals my breath.
"It means I'm still here and he's not. It means every morning I wake up breathing is a morning he doesn't get.
It means..." He stops, swallows hard. "It means trying to save someone isn't the same as succeeding. And trying is all I did."
"You tried to save him."
"Yeah." The word is bitter as poison. "And it wasn't enough."
I stand, moving to sit beside him on the bed. Close enough that our knees touch. "Tell me what happened. The real story. All of it."
His hands clench into fists. "You don't want to know."
"Yes, I do. I've wanted to know for four years."
He runs both hands through his hair, and I notice they're shaking. When he speaks again, his voice is hollow. Confession without hope of absolution.
"We were running intelligence on Cartel weapons routes.
Joint operation for the military and CIA.
I was a field commander." He stares at the wall like he's watching it all play out again.
"We needed someone who understood logistics.
Supply chains. Shipping manifests. Someone who could spot patterns and make sense of the chaos. "
My breath catches. "Alex."
"Alex." He nods. "He was working with the Royal Bastards, had connections to legitimate trucking, and knew how to read shipments.
He was perfect for it. And he..." Carter's voice cracks.
"He wanted to help. Believed in the mission.
Said if we could stop the Cartel from moving weapons, we'd save lives. Kids' lives."
The bandage on his shoulder is already showing a small dot of red seeping through. I should rewrap it. Instead, I sit frozen.
"So you recruited him."
"I recruited him." The confession lands between us like a body. "Promised him it was low-risk. Surveillance only. We'd stay hidden, gather intel, get out clean."
"But it wasn't low-risk."
"No." He closes his eyes. "The operation was compromised.
Someone in my unit, someone I trusted, was feeding information to the Cartel.
I didn't know. Should've seen it, should've caught it, but I didn't. And when everything went to hell.
.." He stops, breathing hard through his nose.
"I called him for backup. I was pinned down at the Royal Bastards clubhouse, extraction falling apart, and I called Alex because I needed someone I could trust."
The room tilts. "You called him into the ambush."
"I called him." He opens his eyes, and they're wet. "He came even though I told him it might be hot. Came because I asked. Because he trusted me. And when the shooting started, he pushed me into cover and took the bullets meant for me."
I can't speak. Can't breathe. The story I thought I knew is reshaping into something uglier.
"You got him killed," I whisper. The words don’t feel like enough. I want to scream. I want to hit him. I want to rewind four years and drag Alex out of that call before he ever answers.
Carter flinches like I struck him. "Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me this before? At the docks? When we met?"
"Because I'm a coward." His voice breaks. "Because I knew that once you knew the truth, you'd look at me exactly like you're looking at me right now. And I'm selfish enough to want... I wanted one more day before you hated me. I didn’t want to see that look in your eyes."
"I don't." I stop. Do I hate him? I don't know what I feel. Anger. Grief. Something that might be understanding buried under the rage.
"You should," he says. "You should hate me."
"Did he know?" The question tears out of me. "Did he know the operation was compromised?"
"No. I didn't know until after. Until it was too late."
"What were his last words?"
Carter's breath hitches. "'Tell Vic I'm sorry. Tell her it was worth it. Protecting her.'"
The sound that escapes me is half-sob, half-keen. "He said my name."
"His last thought was you." Carter wipes his face roughly. "He made me promise to tell you he loved you. That everything he did, joining the Bastards, taking the job with me, all of it, was to make the world safer for the women you'd protect. For the shelter you wanted to build."
That breaks something open in me I’ve been welding shut since the funeral.
Through the walls, I hear the muted sounds of the clubhouse. French's laugh comes from somewhere downstairs. A bike engine is starting in the lot. Life continues like the world isn't cracking apart in this room.
"I should kick you out," I say. "Should tell you to leave and never come back."
"You should."
"But I can't." The admission costs me everything. "Because part of me understands. Part of me knows that if I'd been in your position, if I'd needed help and trusted someone enough to call them... I'd have done the same thing."
He looks at me like I've offered him something sacred he doesn't deserve. "Rebel."
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't thank me. Don't tell me it's going to be okay. Just..." I stop, gathering myself. "Just tell me there's no more. No more secrets about that night. No more things you're hiding about Alex."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. That half-second of hesitation is louder than the gunfire, and in it, I see the truth.
"There's more," I say flatly.
"Classified details. Things I can't…"
"Bullshit." I stand, needing distance. "You just told me you recruited him and called him into an ambush. What could possibly be worse than that?"
"The reasons why." His voice is barely audible. "The decisions I made that led to the compromise. The things I should have seen and didn't. The ways I failed him go deeper than just that night."
"Tell me."
"I can't.” Carter shakes his head. “Not yet.
Not when we're in the middle of hunting the Vultures.
Not when you need me functional." He stands too, carefully.
"Please, Rebel. I'm asking for time. When this is over, when the threat's gone and you're safe, I'll tell you everything.
Every decision. Every failure. All of it. "
It's a coward's bargain. A delay tactic dressed up as protection, but I'm taking it anyway.
"One chance," I hear myself say. "One chance to prove you're telling me everything that matters. One chance to help me finish what Alex started."
"One chance," he echoes.
"But no more lies. No more omissions. And when this is over, you tell me the rest."
"When this is over," he promises. "Everything."
I nod, not trusting my voice. Outside, the sun's fully set. The compound lights have clicked on, casting long shadows through the window.
"You should rest," I say. "That shoulder needs time to heal."
"So do you."
"I'm not the one who got shot."
"No." His eyes hold mine. "You're the one finding out the man you trusted got your brother killed. That's a different kind of wound."
The honesty in his voice cracks something open in my chest. I cross back to him, standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"For what it's worth," I say quietly, "Alex loved you. I saw it in the messages he sent me. He talked about you like you hung the moon. Called you his brother."
"I didn't deserve that."
"Maybe not. But he gave it anyway. That was his choice." I press my palm against his chest, over his heart. His heartbeat stutters under my hand. "So what are you going to do with the life he gave you?"
He covers my hand with his. "Something worth the cost."
"Then prove it."
The moment stretches between us, electric and fragile. Then he leans down slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
The kiss is soft. Careful. Tasting of salt and confession and things neither of us can take back.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his. "This doesn't mean I forgive you."
"I know."
"And it doesn't mean I trust you completely."
"I know that too."
"But it means I'm willing to try. To see if there's something here worth saving."
His breath shudders out. "That's more than I deserve."
"Probably." I step back, putting space between us before I do something stupid like forgive him too soon. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we keep hunting."
"Rebel?"
I pause at the door. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not throwing me out. For listening. For..." He stops. "For being stronger than I am."
"Someone has to be." I don't look back. "Good night, Carter."
"Good night."
I close the door behind me and lean against the hallway wall. My hands are shaking. My chest feels hollowed out.
He got Alex killed. And I just kissed him. If loving Carter means betraying my brother, I don’t know which one I’m choosing.
Down the hall, I hear Divine's voice calling my name. Something about security protocols for tomorrow. Real life is demanding attention.
For a moment, I just stand there in the dark hallway, pressing Alex's dog tag against my chest, and wonder if my brother would understand the choice I'm making.
Or if he'd be disappointed that I'm falling for the man who got him killed.
Tell Vic it was worth it.
"I hope you meant that, Alex," I whisper. "Because I'm trusting him. And if you're wrong about him, if he's not worth what you paid..."
I don't finish the thought because I can’t survive being wrong twice.