Chapter Thirty-Five
THE CLUBHOUSE FELT hollow without the men. Engines had roared out at dawn, the sound fading into the desert until only silence and the faint smell of oil lingered. The absence was sharp enough to ache. Every tick of the wall clock cut through the quiet like a reminder that I was alone.
I stayed close to the common room, a book open in my lap, though my eyes barely skimmed the words.
Ashen had held me through the night, his arms locked tight around me like he was afraid I’d slip away if he let go.
I’d woken wrapped in him, his steady heartbeat under my hand, his voice still echoing in my head: I love you. That’s the only truth that matters.
I wanted to believe it. God, I did. But now the bed was empty, the clubhouse quieter, and the silence let doubts creep back in like weeds through cracked stone.
“Need anything?”
I flinched at the sound, snapping my gaze up.
Dusty leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
The older man wore his years in the lines across his face and the grey threaded through his beard.
He’d always been polite, constant in the background, a man who never raised his voice and never took sides.
Except now, his eyes looked darker, rimmed with something heavy.
“I’m fine,” I said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My voice felt too small in the vast, empty room.
“You should stretch your legs. Been cooped up too long.” His tone was easy, almost kind. But his arms shifted, uncrossing, recrossing, like he couldn’t quite get comfortable standing still. “Rain’s cleared. Air’ll do you good.”
I hesitated, glancing toward the windows.
The desert sky was washed clean, clouds thinning into strips of white against endless blue.
The ground still held the storm’s dampness, and the air had that potent, metallic bite of rain on sand.
It was tempting, the thought of stepping into something that wasn’t smoke, leather, and fear.
Still, my pulse quickened. Ashen wouldn’t want me outside.
“I don’t think Ashen would want me outside,” I murmured, hugging the blanket tighter.
Dusty gave a low chuckle. “Ashen’s a good man, but he’s wound tight. Out back’s clear. Security’s got eyes everywhere. Ten minutes, no one’ll even notice.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. A shadow flickered there and was gone.
Something in his tone carried weight—the calm confidence of seniority. He’d been wearing the patch longer than most, longer than Ashen himself. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that maybe for once it was safe to breathe without fear closing in.
I set my book aside, standing slow. “Just for a minute.”
His mouth curved again, warmer this time, and for a second it looked almost fatherly. But his hand flexed once at his side, like he was holding something back. “That’s the spirit. Come on.”
We walked through the back hall together. My shoes hitting the floorboards, every creak louder than it should’ve been. Dusty moved ahead of me, shoulders squared, his steps heavy. For a moment I thought I saw his hand brush the wall, steadying himself. Not nerves exactly—something else. A burden.
The clubhouse door opened with a soft groan, spilling us into the gravel lot. Beyond stretched the desert, endless and raw, smelling of wet dust and rain. The air rushed against my face, cool and sharp, and for the first time in days I let my lungs fill all the way.
Relief washed over me so strong it almost felt like joy. Maybe Ashen’s right. Maybe I can have more than fear.
I took several steps out, damp wind brushing my skin—
And then pain exploded against the side of my skull.
The world lurched, blurred, spun away.
Through the ringing in my ears, through the darkness that pulled me under, I caught one last image: Dusty’s face above me. Not the calm, fatherly mask. Not the steady brother in the background.
It was twisted, not with cruelty, but with something rawer. Desperation. Regret.
His lips moved, whispering words I couldn’t hold onto.
Then nothing.