Chapter 4
FOUR
BELLAMY
The fourth bin scrapes across Bishop’s backseat, plastic catching on leather. Rafe’s trunk accepts the fifth with a hollow thud that vibrates through the frame. The sixth bin wedges between Cruz and Lola in the backseat like some makeshift coffin. Their shoulders press against windows.
Cruz flinches when the edge digs into his ribs. His hand flies to his side. “Dorsey’s. How much longer?”
Lola’s knee rises against the door. “Too fucking long.”
I blink down at fingers I can’t feel. My knuckles are geography—islands of raw flesh, valleys of dried blood that crack when I try to make a fist. When I inhale, electricity shoots from shoulder to fingertips. I exhale slowly through my nose, keep my jaw relaxed, my eyes level.
My good hand reaches for the door handle anyway.
Rafe makes a low noise in the back of his throat. His fingers circle my wrist—warm, dry, calloused—and peel mine away one by one. The pressure at my waist shifts me sideways, five distinct points of heat spreading against my ribs through the thin cotton of my shirt.
He opens the driver’s side door. He’s so close that his exhale stirs the hair at my nape, raising goosebumps despite the summer heat.
When I step up, his palm finds the small of my back—not pushing, not pulling, just there—a counterbalance that keeps me from swaying when pain flares white-hot down my arm.
Gage sits in the passenger seat, his six-foot-three frame making the space feel smaller, knees nearly touching the dash. The man occupies territory rather than simply taking up space. It’s a sensation amplified threefold with Cruz pressed behind Gage, his presence radiating a quiet intensity.
Then Rafe slides into the driver’s seat beside me, the cabin closing in further, the air thickening with unspoken tension.
With the plastic bin wedged in the middle of the backseat, I have no choice but to perch on the center console, my legs draped awkwardly over Gage’s lap, the hard side of the console already digging into my spine.
“Just sit on my lap, Bell,” Gage says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. His hand hovers near my hip, not quite touching.
I shift my weight, trying to find comfort where there isn’t any. “You’re already hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, eyes finding mine. “That console’s going to cut off circulation to your ass in about ten minutes.”
“Hold on, baby,” Rafe murmurs quietly as the car lurches forward.
Loose gravel sprays against the undercarriage like buckshot. My gaze catches on the side mirror—the armored truck shrinking behind us, its rear doors hanging open like a broken jaw.
Rafe turns left onto the road we were originally driving on, and I’m not prepared. I slide across the console, my shoulder colliding with his arm. White-hot lightning forks from my shoulder to my fingertips. My vision sparkles at the edges.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, curling my good hand into a fist, nails cutting half-moons into my palm.
Gage’s arm snakes around my waist, the sudden movement sending a jolt through my injured shoulder. His grip tightens—just for a heartbeat—before deliberately loosening as he pulls me onto his lap.
I brace my good hand against his chest. “Don’t—”
“I can feel you shaking,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
“So your solution is to—” The car lurches to the side to avoid something in the middle of the road, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.
“There.” His voice drops lower as he shifts beneath me, angling his body to absorb the next impact before it reaches mine. His thighs tense and release with each dip in the road.
I exhale slowly, shifting to see him. “Gage.”
“Bell.” He mimics my tone perfectly, the corner of his mouth lifting as his palm slides flat against my stomach, gently pulling until my spine aligns with his chest.
I turn my head, my nose nearly brushing his. A fresh trickle of blood slides down his temple, disappearing into his hairline.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“So are you.” His fingers splay wider over my abdomen, warm through the thin fabric. His other hand cradles my elbow, pinning it against my side. The pain in my shoulder recedes like a wave pulling back from shore.
“Hey, I’m bleeding too,” Cruz grumbles from the seat behind us. The plastic bin creaks as he shifts his weight.
“We’re all bleeding. Do you want a fucking cookie?” Lola drawls.
“You tripped and fell.” Cruz’s head thunks against the window. “I got put through the tumble cycle inside a fucking metal box, so you know what?” He exhales, long and slow. “Hell yeah I want a fucking cookie.”
“I’ll buy everyone a fucking cookie if you just be quiet for ten minutes. I’ve got a splitting headache,” Lola grumbles.
Gage’s breath stirs the hair at my temple. “Just lean back.”
My weight shifts against him, the solid wall of his chest rising and falling beneath my spine. “If I’m hurting you—”
“You’re not.” His voice vibrates through his sternum, a low rumble I feel more than hear.
The road stretches ahead, tires humming against asphalt. My eyelids flutter, growing heavier with each exhale. The car dips into a pothole. Pain lances through my shoulder. Bile rises in my throat, hot and sour. I swallow it down, focusing on the steady thud of Gage’s heartbeat against my back.
Fingers brush my thigh, calluses catching on denim. I follow the line of that arm to find Rafe watching me, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. “Your shoulder going to make another hour?”
Something flickers across his face—that focused intensity that makes him look like he might devour whatever he’s looking at. “I’ll fix it as soon as we get to Dorsey’s.”
My breath shudders out.
Gage’s voice rumbles through his chest against my spine. “Don’t worry, Rafe’s popped more shoulders back in than most ER docs.” His palm slides up to cradle my good arm, thumb brushing over my wrist. “He’ll be quick about it.”
My head grows heavy, each blink longer than the last. The road blurs into a smear of asphalt and scrubby desert. I surrender to the gentle sway of the car, Gage’s heartbeat a steady drum against my back.
Time dissolves.
“We’re here, Bell.” Gage’s voice filters through layers of fog, lips brushing my ear. My eyes crack open to a world that refuses to focus—everything too bright, too sharp.
Grains of sand seem to scrape beneath my eyelids with each blink. The car has stopped, but my brain still feels like it’s moving, caught between sleep and consciousness, unable to remember exactly where we are or how long I’ve been out.
The junkyard materializes through the dust-streaked windshield—a rusted chain-link fence topped with spirals of razor wire catching the late afternoon sun, skeletal shells of gutted cars stacked three high like the vertebrae of mechanical dinosaurs.
The layout sprawls in a chaotic maze of narrow pathways and hidden corners, enough blind spots to make my skin prickle with unease.
I catalog everything with quick, darting glances. Three possible entry points along the eastern fence. Poor sight lines to the north where junked semis create a wall. At least seven spots where someone could hunker down with a rifle if they knew we were coming.
By the time Rafe kills the engine, the silence descends like a heavy curtain dropping, leaving only the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal. I shift my weight to slide off Gage’s lap, but his arm tightens around my waist, the muscles in his forearm flexing against my stomach.
“Don’t move.” Rafe’s voice is gravel and whiskey as he unfolds from the driver’s seat and rounds the hood.
“What’s going on?” My voice sounds thin in the oppressive heat.
“He’s gonna pop your shoulder back in, remember?” Gage’s fingertips trace a path from my wrist to my elbow, leaving goosebumps despite the sweat beading on my skin.
“Right.” I run my tongue over cracked lips, tasting salt and dried blood. My heartbeat doubles.
The passenger door groans open. Rafe’s silhouette blocks the harsh sunlight.
Gage pivots, taking me with him. His boots plant on gravel while I remain cradled against his chest. Rafe crouches, eye-level now.
His gaze tracks my shoulder—the unnatural angle, the way my body curves protectively around it.
“Ready?” Rafe squats down in front of me, his eyes tracing the line of it first—the way it sits slightly off, the way I’m holding myself around it without meaning to.
“Sure.”
“Trust me,” he says, voice dropping an octave.
The world narrows to just his face—those eyes that feel like I’m staring into the deepest parts of the ocean. Something electric passes between us, something that makes my breath catch for reasons entirely separate from the pain.
“Okay.” The word escapes before I can reconsider.
Gage’s arm forms a steel band around my waist. His breath warms the nape of my neck.
Rafe’s fingers ghost over my shoulder, barely touching at first, then pressing with practiced precision. His touch maps the damage beneath my skin, reading it like braille. When he finds the spot where bone meets socket—or should—I inhale sharply through clenched teeth.
His gaze flicks to mine. “Okay,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”
“Partial?” Gage’s breath warms my ear.
Rafe’s thumb shifts against my skin. I feel the slight calluses catch as he tests the joint with a pressure that makes my vision blur at the edges.
“Yeah, it slipped out. Which means…” His hand slides down to my elbow, fingers wrapping fully around it while his other palm cups my shoulder, warm and steady. “Eyes on me, baby.”
I’m already watching the flecks of darker blue in his irises, the slight crease between his brows. My chin dips. My throat clicks when I swallow.
“Deep breath,” Gage coaxes.
My chest expands against his arm. The inhale stutters halfway through.