Chapter 11
SYVANNAH
Morning sunlight spills through the blinds like a challenge. I blink against it, caught between warmth and disbelief. Tiny’s heavy arm is across my waist, his breathing deep and steady. For a few seconds, I just watch him. The way his chest rises and falls, the faint scar that runs along his ribs.
Peanut is curled at the edge of the bed, one paw over her face like she’s shielding her eyes from reality, too.
I smile, small and stupid. We let the world fall away for one night. But peace doesn’t last.
Tiny stirs beside me, blinking awake. His voice is rough, low. “Morning.”
“Barely,” I tease. “You sleep?”
“Some.” He shifts, stretches, and the movement pulls the sheet down his chest. The sight should make me melt, but instead, it twists something in my gut. The guilt. The what-now. The ghosts that never stay buried.
He catches the look and smirks like he knows what I’m thinking. “Don’t start overanalyzing it, Syv.”
“Too late.”
He leans in and presses a soft, grounding kiss to my forehead. “We’re good.”
I want to believe him. I really do. But belief has always been my weakest muscle. Every time I’ve trusted someone, it’s cost me blood or pieces I never got back. Tiny says we’re good, and I almost let myself breathe it in. Almost.
Then he looks away first. Not like a man hiding guilt, but like someone who’s learned to build walls so quietly that you don’t notice until you’re standing outside them. That’s what breaks me.
I tell myself it’s nothing. That I’m overthinking. That men like Tiny survive by not saying everything. But the silence between us feels heavier than the air, thick with things we’re both pretending not to notice.
So, I do what I’ve always done when the walls start closing in. I move. I shower, put on a little mascara, and don jeans that make me feel human. By the time the sun’s high in the sky, I’ve convinced myself I can leave the doubt in the sheets.
By noon, the club’s parking lot looks like a makeshift carnival.
Royal Dancers is hosting their charity showcase, the one Dagger’s been planning for months.
Kids from the high school stand in clusters, filled with nervous energy in the heat.
Parents linger near the food trucks, where the smell of fried dough and motor oil mixes in the air like chaos pretending to be a celebration.
Nadia’s girls line up in glitter and nerves. Danyella’s got the Little Bastards in matching black shirts, passing out flyers like tiny CEOs. Red sets up a speaker tower with just enough bass to make Trigger mutter about “budgeting for subwoofers.”
Dagger owns the mic like he was born with it.
“Royal Dancers thanks every parent, partner, and hooligan, present company, who showed up so these kids get a shot that doesn’t require bail money.
” Laughter erupts. He winks at Nina. “Special thanks to our high-school outreach liaison who insisted on actual lesson plans so we don’t teach your children to swear in three languages. ”
That’s when she walks in.
Ms. Emerson is tall, with long legs, brown eyes like a lit match, and she wears black glasses that shadow her dark complexion. She holds a clipboard close, like a judge’s gavel.
Dagger stalls mid-spiel. “And, uh… curriculum… uh… focus areas…”
Torch yells from the snow-cone cart, “Use your words, Reverend!”
Dagger clears his throat. “Right. Words. I’ve got ‘em. You,” he points at Ms. Emerson, then drops his finger like it’s hot. “Thank you for trusting us with your students. We’ll earn it.”
Her smile is small, precise, devastating. “Prove it.”
Beside me, Nadia whispers, “He’s gone.”
“Buried,” I confirm with a giggle.
The first group of dancers takes the stage. Bare feet thud, then glide. A girl who wouldn’t meet my eyes last month hits a line so clean it makes my throat sting. We clap as if our lives depend on it.
Capone stands with Blayze near the fence, scanning the edges.
Bones and Aftermath man the grill like competitive uncles.
Jezebelle hustles a raffle with a voice that could talk down a riot.
Brotherhood looks like a checkered tablecloth, grease-stained napkins, and a dozen eyes always counting heads.
Tiny hangs back by the gate, sunglasses on, cut open at the front like he wants air he can’t get. People wave. He nods. He’s here, but his focus keeps sliding south.
I bring him a bottle of water. “Hydrate or Nadia’s gonna choreograph your funeral.”
“Cruel,” he says, but the corner of his mouth lifts. He tips the bottle against my knuckles, a small private touch nobody else can see. It clears some static in my chest.
“Everything okay?” I ask. “For real.”
His answer takes a beat too long. “Red found something we need to trace. It’s fine.” That means it isn’t.
Before I can push, Ms. Emerson heads straight for us, earlier steel wrapped in a teacher's calm. “I’ve read some of the pieces on the Royal Dancers blog,” she says. “Whoever’s writing them really understands these kids.”
My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression neutral. “Yeah,” I say lightly. “They’ve got a good voice.”
“They do,” Ms. Emerson agrees, glancing toward the stage. “It’s rare to see that kind of empathy in print.”
“Guess they’ve been listening,” I reply, forcing a smile.
Her gaze lingers a second too long. She’s a smart woman, probably connecting dots I can’t afford for her to. She turns to Tiny. “And you must be the one making sure Dagger doesn’t turn shop class into a demolition derby.”
Tiny deadpans, “His sermons keep the bolts in.”
Ms. Emerson’s mouth softens. She clocks everything about Tiny, from the grease permanently on his hands, the careful distance he keeps so he doesn’t crowd me, the gratitude in how he nods to the kids, and the hair on the back of my neck rises.
She extends her hand. He shakes it. No flinch. Respect meets respect.
“You’re all full of surprises,” she says, eyes flicking between us. “Prove me right.”
Dagger, who has materialized as if summoned, blurts, “We will.”
She arches a brow. “By submitting weekly objectives.”
Dagger pales. “That a euphemism?”
“Academic standards,” she says.
“Right,” he wheezes. “Love those.”
Tiny leans close enough for his breath to brush my ear. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie, then smile. “She’s gonna eat Dagger alive.”
“Good. Man needs humbling.”
Laughter ripples. It lands in my ribs like medicine. For a few minutes, the doubt quiets.
As the younger set files offstage, the patch bunnies swarm the lemonade stand like it’s a runway. Glitter, denim shorts, hoop earrings big enough to lasso a steer. They’re not villains, most are chaos with good hearts. But some, well, some thrive on cracks.
“Syv!” Honey calls, wiggling a cup with three lemon slices. “We made the good sugar batch. Want?”
“Bless you,” I say, taking it.
Gigi leans in, voice bright and sharp. “You and Tiny looked cozy. Finally!”
A third patch bunny, Trixie, pops a gum bubble. “About damn time someone kissed that man before I did.” We laugh. It feels like a sleepover where the knives are optional.
Honey nods toward Tiny. “He keeps watching the perimeter like it owes him money.”
“Job hazard,” I say.
“Heart hazard,” Trixie singsongs. “Men like that leave pieces of themselves on the road. Women like us pick ‘em up and try not to bleed.” It should land like a joke, but doesn’t.
Tiny’s with Trigger now, heads bent over Red’s tablet as a heat shimmer blurs the far fence.
Dagger’s pretending not to stare at Ms. Emerson, who is deliberately not staring back.
Bones is teaching Nina how to flip a burger without losing fingers.
Jez steals bites and blames Derange. Laughter rides the heat like wind.
“Go join him,” Honey nudges. “Or he’ll think you’re waiting for him to pick the moment.”
I straighten my shoulders. “Maybe I am.”
“Or maybe you’re braver than that,” she says, then winks and flits off to referee Gigi and Trixie arguing about glitter sunscreen.
As I cross to Tiny, Trigger peels away, leaving us in a small wedge of shade.
“You good?” I ask.
His jaw flexes once. “Could be better.”
“Vague,” I tease softly.
He starts to smile, then stops. “You know how Red gets when pieces don’t line up. We’ll figure it out.” He tips my chin with a knuckle, quick, almost apologetic. “You ate?”
“Yup. Bones made me. Threatened to cry if I didn’t.”
“That man has no tear ducts,” Tiny says, the ghost of a grin finally landing. “I checked.”
“Gross.”
“Accurate.” I’m about to say, come sit with me, be tired next to me, when a shadow spills over my shoes.
Perfume like sugared knives invades my nose. Pearl. Red lipstick lined to look like a weapon. She smiles a too bright smile at Tiny first, then drifts her gaze to me like she’s deciding whether I’m furniture or fire.
“Cute event,” she purrs. “Very… rehabilitative.”
“Kids look great,” I say, not giving her more than that.
Tiny’s polite to a fault. “Pearl.”
She tucks her hair behind her ear, lets her nails flash. “Prez know you’re rolling out the kindergarten-safe brand today? I’d have worn flats.”
“Prez asked us to be here,” Tiny says, voice even. Which is brother-speak for walk away while I still have patience.
Pearl’s eyes gleam. She leans toward me like we’re girlfriends swapping secrets. “You must be so proud. Coming back from everything. Like a miracle.”
My spine goes ice. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Celebrate you?” She laughs, syrup and smoke. “You know what I love most about miracles? They always have fine print.”
Tiny shifts. “Enough.”
“Relax.” Pearl holds her hands up. “I’m being supportive.” Then quieter, just for me. “Funny how fast some men forgive when the right person does the crying.” She tips her chin at Tiny. “Some loyalties die hard.”
“Pearl.” Tiny’s voice drops a note. Warning.
She smiles the way snakes do. “Ask him about the Hounds.” Then she’s gone, hips swinging, leaving the scent of trouble behind.
The world blurs at the edges. The heat, the music, the squeal of kids chasing bubbles. Everything feels too distant, as if someone turned the volume down on joy.