Chapter 9
REBEL
Idon’t sleep.
I sit with my back against the office door, the metal warmth of Alex’s dog tag pressed to my chest, while the faint taste of Carter’s kiss still lingers on my lips. The office smells like paper, dust, and the faint burn of overheated wiring from the security panel above me.
I count the seconds between security grid rotations the way I used to count Alex’s breaths when we were kids hiding from storms. Back then, I counted to survive the dark. Now, I count to stay ahead of it. Every hum in the wall feels like a warning. Every shift in the air sounds like a breach.
Carter and I have been holed up in the war room for hours, poring over spreadsheets and encrypted codes.
The room is lit by blue screens and the low pulse of the Harlots’ security grid.
The smell of coffee and sweat lingers. My laptop hums beside his, the sound of overlapping searches filling the silence between us.
His shoulder brushes mine as he shifts in his chair. The contact is accidental, but neither of us pulls away. His warmth seeps through the cotton. My heartbeat responds before I can tell it to stop.
“Textile plant,” Carter says, pointing to the IP map glowing on his screen. “Same one from the Vultures’ hit on your brother’s shipment. They reactivated it.”
I drag the cursor across the highlighted coordinates. “That place burned down three years ago.”
“Not anymore. The system’s pinging an active relay inside. That’s a front, Rebel. Could be money movement, could be storage.”
“Could be bait.”
He gives me a sidelong look. “Everything’s bait if you’re not careful.”
The cursor blinks between us, the screen casting his face in shades of cold light.
My chest tightens. The man bleeds control.
Every movement is measured, every breath calculated, but I can tell he’s just as wired as I am, with the slight tick of his jaw.
His hands also betray his tension, as his fingers flatten against the table when he thinks I am not looking.
Finally, I exhale. “If the Vultures are running this through a Syndicate shell company, then the Royal Bastards are sitting on a time bomb without even knowing it.”
Carter’s expression darkens. “That’s not just the Syndicate. It’s an expansion. They’re building something bigger, smarter. This is how they rebuild under the radar.”
He’s right. Every piece we’ve followed, the ledger, the ghost accounts, the reactivated contracts, wasn’t just theft. It was recruitment. They’re resurrecting dead operations through legitimate fronts. Shelter donations. Freight companies. Rehab programs. Even Alex’s old cover firm.
My pulse skitters. “We have to tell Allura.”
Carter leans back, arms crossed. “You think she’ll thank you for bringing this to her door?”
“She’ll understand.”
He lifts a brow. “You sure about that?”
The doubt sits heavy, but I nod anyway.
By the time we leave Divine’s office, night has settled over the yard.
The bar glows faintly, but the rest of the compound remains quiet, like a storm about to break.
The air smells like leather soaked into wood and faint salt drifting inland.
Floodlights buzz overhead, insects battering themselves against the glass.
I find Allura and Sloane already in the clubhouse, reviewing the new security protocols. Divine is perched at the end of the table, with her tablet glowing in her hands. Coffee steam curls up near her face, sharp and bitter.
“Talk,” Allura says when we walk in. Her tone isn’t angry, it’s cold. Controlled. That’s worse.
Carter stays silent, letting me step into the spotlight.
I hate that it feels like a confession. “The Vultures’ trail leads to a textile plant in South Central.
The same quadrant is tied to Alex’s last job.
The ghost accounts are funding it through charity fronts.
And the Syndicate’s fingerprints are all over it. ”
Sloane’s jaw flexes. “You’re telling me you followed that lead without bringing it to Church?”
“I was verifying.”
“You were hiding.”
“Protecting.”
Allura’s voice slices through ours. “And what exactly were you protecting? Us or him?”
The question hits hard enough to rattle my teeth. I glance at Carter, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t defend me. Of course, he doesn’t. He’s not part of this family.
Divine snaps her tablet shut. “You brought him here. You brought the Vultures’ fire with you. And now you’re asking us to trust a man you barely know?”
“Alex knew him,” I fire back.
“That’s not the same,” Divine says flatly. Her wounded eyes lock with mine, making this feel personal. She steps close enough that I can smell coffee on her breath and a faint scent of her favorite body wash.
“You don’t shut me out,” she says quietly. “Not you.”
The room stills.
“I wasn’t shutting you out,” I answer.
“You were,” Divine responds honestly. “And it hurts.”
The tension is electric, crackling through the room like lightning bottled in bad choices. Finally, Divine straightens. “Club rules say we don’t keep secrets from each other.”
I nod once. “I know.”
Her eyes flash. “Then you also know what happens when someone breaks that rule.”
The ring.
A ripple runs through the women around us. French whistles low. Calypso exhales through her nose, muttering something about “blood before betrayal.”
Allura folds her arms. “You willing to settle it that way?”
Saying no would be easier, but easy never kept a woman alive in this family.
I look at Divine longer this time. I see the nights we slept on opposite ends of the clubhouse couch when money was thin.
I see her hands ink-stained from helping Calypso in the shop when we were building this place from nothing.
“I trust you enough to hit me,” I reply softly, not breaking eye contact with Divine. “That’s not hiding.”
The night air bites sharp, metallic. The ring’s floodlights carve the compound in gold and shadow. The Harlots gather in a loose half-circle, leather and steel shining under the lights.
For a moment, standing there, I see Alex in flashes. His hands taped, grin wide, telling me family isn’t who patches you up; it’s who drags you back to the fight. Maybe this is what he meant. Maybe this is how forgiveness bleeds.
Divine steps through the ropes, gloves already on, her braid tight down her back. Her shoulders are squared, but her eyes never leave mine.
“Three rounds,” French calls. “No face shots unless you mean it.”
“I mean it,” Divine says.
“Same,” I reply.
The crowd stirs. Sloane’s arms are crossed, eyes cold and unreadable. Calypso smirks from the ropes. Allura stands still as marble. She doesn’t shout. One look and the circle tightens, respectful and hungry for the truth. The club’s heartbeats sync to the drum of my pulse.
The first punch cracks like lightning. Divine’s fast precision in motion. I block, swing back, my knuckles biting flesh. The hit lands clean, and she grins through it.
“You always think you’re the only one carrying the weight,” she spits between strikes.
“Someone has to.”
“Bullshit.” She feints left, hooks right, and catches my ribs. “You don’t trust us enough to share it.”
Pain flares sharp, but it burns the fear out of me. I counter with a jab that knocks her off balance. “I trust you to judge me.”
“Then stop hiding.”
We move in rhythm, sweat and fury, fists translating what words can’t. French yells encouragement from the corner. Calypso shouts, “Hit her again!” and laughter ripples through the crowd.
The last punch lands harder than intended, a blur of knuckles, sweat, and breath. The world narrows to light and heartbeat. I hit the sand, lungs burning. Divine stands above me, panting, blood trailing from her lip.
She drops the gloves and reaches down. “Now tell us everything.” Divine’s voice wavers slightly, not enough for anyone but me to hear. Her eyes aren’t angry anymore. They’re hurt. And beneath all that, I see the compassion my best friend still feels for me.
I take her hand. Her grip tightens for half a second longer than needed before she pulls me up. That’s our apology.
The others drift back to their corners of the compound, and I sit outside the ring with an ice pack pressed to my ribs. The night hums low and alive, the smell of blood and leather still sharp in the air.
Carter appears out of the dark, tossing me a towel. “You fight like you mean it.”
“Family rule,” I murmur. “We don’t pull punches.”
“Remind me not to piss you off.”
“Too late for that.”
He laughs softly, crouching beside me. He’s carrying the medic kit I used the other night when we both were grazed with bullets. He kneels in front of me with the ease of a man who’s done worse things and called them maintenance.
“You look like you lost an argument with a freight truck,” he says, half-trying for humor. His fingers are steady as he peels back the edge of my shirt where the sand bit into my ribs. The skin around the bruise is already puckered. When he cleans the wound, the antiseptic stings like cold acid.
“Feels like it,” I answer, because honesty is cheap when there’s more at stake than pride.
He presses a cool pad to the cut. “You did what you had to. You saved them.” His thumb rubs a slow circle across my forearm. His hand lingers just a moment longer before he pulls away. He notices, and so do I.
It’s a small gesture, but everything shifts an inch for me. I let the moment pass, because there is no time to live in it.
Carter’s hand brushes mine when I take the ice pack, adjusting it against my ribs. It burns through me, quiet and undeniable. “Next time,” he says, “you call for backup.”
“Next time,” I answer, “I won’t need it.”
He offers me a small, tired smile, and for the first time since this started, I think maybe the ledger isn’t the only thing I can balance.
Because the Harlots bleed together, and Carter Bishop bleeds, too.
But somewhere beyond the compound walls, the Vultures are already circling again. Waiting for the next fight.