Chapter 5 - Bellamy
FIVE
BELLAMY
The house rises out of the dark like it’s been waiting for us.
My fingers tighten around the door handle as we approach.
I should feel relief after what happened in the desert, but my throat closes instead.
The windows stare back at me, dark and knowing, as if the whole structure might fold in on itself and trap us all inside.
My skin prickles beneath my shirt, a thousand tiny needles working their way from my neck down my spine, and I have to force myself to shake off the sensation.
“Fuck, who’s gonna tell Ma?” Gage sighs from behind me.
“Well, don’t look at me. She’s not our mother,” Lola says around a yawn.
His fingers brush against my shoulders as he grabs my seat and leans forward. “Honestly, Bell, she might take it best from you. You know Coco has a soft spot for you.”
Coco Calloway is a lot of things—including an incredible actress. There’s no way on god’s green earth that she would take this news better from me.
I crane my neck to the side, my pulse quickening as I catch Gage’s profile in the dim light. “Your mother would probably pull a gun on me if I told her we lost a third of the take.”
Gage’s eyes crinkle at the corners, that familiar half-smile appearing. “Nah, she outsources these days. And Rafe won’t shoot you, will you, brother?”
Rafe’s knuckles whiten against the steering wheel as he pulls into the driveway. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. Bishop’s headlights flash in the rearview, too close.
“Bro, your silence isn’t exactly comforting,” Gage says, voice light but eyes watchful.
Rafe’s gaze slides from the house to his brother before landing on me, heavy and deliberate. “I’m not going to shoot you.”
I bite the inside of my bottom lip. “Wasn’t on my list of concerns.”
Something shifts in Rafe’s expression—a dangerous spark behind his eyes as his mouth curves upward. “At least not tonight.” The car door opens and closes in one fluid motion, leaving his words hanging in the air between us.
Gage’s hand finds my good shoulder, warm and steady. “He’s just—”
“I know.” I step out into the night air, cool against my flushed skin.
Bishop slams his car door. “Everyone inside.” His jaw twitches as he scans the tree line, hand hovering near his waistband. “No one leaves tonight.” He jerks his chin toward the closing gate at the end of the driveway.
Gage hooks his arm around my neck, careful of my shoulder, and pulls me in like it’s automatic. “Looks like we’re having a sleepover tonight.”
I glance up. His split lip curls into a grin despite the purple shadow blooming beneath his eye.
“Think your mother keeps enough ice packs for this many houseguests?”
He flashes me a grin. “Have you met her sons?”
“Good point.” My head finds the hollow of his shoulder, fitting there like muscle memory.
Rafe heaves a bin from the trunk, and Bishop follows with another. Beck grabs a third one. The garage door rattles upward before they reach it, and Coco appears in the opening.
Her mouth tightens into a bloodless line as her gaze sweeps over us, cataloging injuries, calculating losses.
Her eyes lock on Bishop. “What happened.”
He murmurs something too low to hear as he shoulders past her with the bin. She pivots, following him inside like a shadow. Rafe and Beck drop their bins inside the garage, and they’re both out quick.
Lola materializes at my elbow, jaw clenched tight enough I can see the muscle jumping beneath her skin. “We’re staying here now?” Her fingers tap a staccato rhythm against her thigh.
Beck plants himself beside her, arms folded across his chest. “I don’t know about this, Bells.”
I nod once, twice, three times. “I hear you. But it’s the middle of the night, and we have a lot of unanswered questions. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but I think Bishop’s right. We should stick together just for tonight.”
“One night.” Lola’s gaze flicks over my face, catches, then slides to Beckett. She hooks two fingers into his sleeve and jerks her head toward the house. “C’mon.”
Gage’s fingers wrap around mine, warm and certain, tugging me forward. The porch steps creak. Cruz’s footsteps follow, his breathing a little uneven behind us as we move through the dim hallway.
Gage pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder.
The lights flicker on with a clinical buzz.
White tile gleams under fluorescents that hide nothing.
In the wall-length mirror, three ghosts stare back.
My reflection stands center, skin pale beneath a layer of desert dust, crimson streaking from temple to ear.
Next to me, Gage’s left eye disappears into purple-black swelling, a streak of dried blood mapping a rust-colored path down his cheek.
Cruz appears on my left, the split in his cheekbone glistening wet, his bottom lip cracked and weeping.
Our eyes meet in the glass. Nobody speaks.
Cruz opens the cabinet with a practiced motion, grabs a white plastic kit with a red cross emblazoned on the front.
The kit lands on the counter with a hollow thud.
Cruz moves to the other sink, twists the knob.
Water rushes against porcelain. Cabinet doors click shut.
The air shifts, fills with sharp antiseptic that cuts through the copper tang of blood as steam begins to curl upward from the tap.
I press my palm against the cool marble counter and reach for the cloth with my other hand. Fire shoots from fingertips to shoulder blade. My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek.
Gage’s eyes find mine in the mirror.
Cruz’s gaze flicks over, then away.
“How do you think Coco’s taking the news?” I drag the wet cloth across my temple, leaving behind a trail of pink water that races toward the drain. My pulse hammers against the thin skin of my throat, each beat echoing through the damaged joint until my fingers tremble against the cloth.
“Not well.” Gage presses a towel to his face.
Cruz holds gauze to the gash on his cheekbone and murmurs, “As expected.”
I nod, my eyes dropping to the sink. The water runs. Nobody speaks. The tap drips once, twice.
The mirror flashes with movement—a new reflection behind us.
Rafe.
His shoulders fill the doorframe, blocking the hallway light.
His shadow stretches across the tile floor, touching the edge of my boot.
The fluorescents catch the angles of his face, hollowing his cheeks, darkening his eyes as they move from the blood-streaked washcloth to Gage’s swollen eye to Cruz’s split cheekbone.
When his gaze lands on me, I lift my arm to wipe at my temple again. My shoulder seizes. A hiss escapes through my teeth before I can trap it.
“Stop.”
The single word vibrates low in the small space. My fingers freeze mid-air.
In three steps, his hand closes around mine, calluses rough against my knuckles as he takes the cloth and sets it on the marble. His other hand brushes my hair back, fingertips grazing my scalp, leaving a trail of heat.
“Hop up.”
I press one palm against the cold counter and push myself up between the sinks, biting the inside of my cheek against the throb in my shoulder. The marble chills my thighs through my jeans.
“You should’ve asked for help,” he murmurs as he steps forward.
My knees part automatically. “I can do it myself. And we’re all hurt.”
He tsks as he slides between my legs, close enough that his belt buckle presses against the inside seam of my jeans. His breath warms my forehead. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t acknowledge how perfectly he fits there.
He just reaches for the cloth again, wets it, and turns my face slightly toward the light.
The bathroom shrinks to just the space between us.
His fingers brush my temple, tucking strands behind my ear as he works the cloth over crusted blood. Each swipe is precise. Efficient. No gentle murmurs of “this might hurt” or “almost done.” Just the steady pressure of fingertips against my scalp.
My heartbeat drums against my ribs as the image flashes behind my eyes—Rafe standing in twisted metal, gun steady in both hands, jaw locked, eyes scanning for threats.
The memory shouldn’t send heat spiraling low in my stomach, not with Gage three feet away dabbing at his own wounds.
Not with the weight of what just happened still hanging over us.
Yet here I am, caught between brothers, my body betraying every rational thought.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles whiten, focusing on the cool marble instead of the warmth radiating from where he stands between my knees.
“How’s your shoulder?”
I blink. “It’s fine. Just a little sore.”
“Show me.”
I lift my arm slowly. The joint holds—but not cleanly. There’s a dull, throbbing ache tucked deep in the socket, something tight and irritated where it slipped earlier. It doesn’t catch, not like before, but it drags unsteady. Like it hasn’t decided if it trusts itself yet.
I stop just short of overhead, the muscle there burning, a faint tremor threading down my arm that I can’t quite hide.
“Again.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He doesn’t even glance up. His focus pins to the joint itself, tracking every inch of movement—the slight hitch, the guarded way I compensate without thinking. Something clinical settles over his expression, like he’s reading me in layers, mapping what’s working and what isn’t.
I lift it again, slower this time, pushing a fraction higher.
The ache deepens into something heavy. A warning more than anything. My arm trembles at the top. His eyes follow it the entire way.
One sharp nod. “Alright. It didn’t slip out again. That’s good.”
Gage unscrews a small jar, the herbal smell hitting me before he even opens it fully. He dabs yellowish paste across the purple blooming under his eye before he passes it to me. “This is arnica. It helps with bruising.”
I catch his reflection. “That bad, huh?”
A tired smile cuts briefly across his mouth, pulling at the split in his lip. “Nah, you’re still gorgeous, Bell.”
Cruz snorts under his breath while inspecting his cheekbone in the mirror.
My hand flies out, connecting with Cruz’s washcloth before my brain catches up to the movement. It smacks against the mirror with a wet thwack. The three of us freeze—except for Rafe. His fingers never pause their methodical cleaning of the cut along my hairline.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck, prickling beneath my skin. “In my defense, I was aiming for your hand.”
Cruz chuckles as he peels the washcloth from the mirror.
“Are you implying my girl’s not gorgeous?” Gage challenges.
I start to turn, but Rafe’s fingers tighten on my chin, holding me in place. My eyes lock with his. Something flashes there—dark, possessive—gone before I can name it. My tongue darts out, wetting my bottom lip.
Cruz huffs. The faucet squeaks as he turns it on again. “I don’t know how you want me to answer that, man.”
I exhale slowly. “Let’s just leave it. It'’s been a long day, and I’m ready for a shower and some sleep.”
Rafe’s eyes lock onto mine, dark and unblinking. The bathroom seems to shrink around us.
“You take my shower,” Gage says, breaking the silence. “We’ll finish up in the kitchen. I’ll use the one outside.”
Rafe steps back, his fingertips trailing across my knee as he withdraws—so brief I almost think I imagined it.
Cruz leans against the doorframe. “My shower’s free too.”
I look over at him, noting the smirk twisting his mouth and the sparkle in his eyes. I already know the answer to this question, but I ask it anyway. “And where would you shower then?”
His split lip stretches into a full grin. “With you.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I shake my head, but can’t stop the smile that tugs at my mouth.
Gage shoves the first aid kit against Cruz’s chest. “Let’s go, asshole, before I add to your collection of bruises.”
“What?” Cruz backs into the hallway, hands raised. “First you want me to call her gorgeous, and now I can’t be hospitable?”
Their voices fade down the hall as Rafe herds them out.
I slide off the counter. In the mirror, a stranger stares back—familiar features arranged in unfamiliar ways. Blood still crusts near my hairline. Rust stains the bed of my thumbnail.
My chest tightens. Not from the crash. Not from the pain.
From this house. These brothers. The way their voices echo down the hall, deep and tangled together.
I press my palm against the counter’s edge until it bites into my skin, anchoring me to something solid while everything else shifts.
The bathroom light flickers once, casting shadows across unfamiliar walls. My fingers grip the edge of the counter as something settles in my chest—not fear exactly.
Anticipation.