4. Stone
I didn’t need telling twice.
The moment Ink said the words, my body was already moving, instincts taking over before my brain could catch up. The name followed me down the hallway like a tether I hadn’t realized had wrapped itself around my ribs.
Alexandra.
I stalk through the clubhouse, long strides eating up distance, boots thudding against worn wood and concrete. The place hums around me—music bleeding through walls, low voices, laughter—but it all fades into background noise. My focus narrows to one thing only.
The infirmary.
If she’s talking now—if she’s opening up about what happened—I need to hear it. I need to know what Whitmore did to her. Not just his version. The truth. Her truth.
And that realization alone should have stopped me.
Because this isn’t how it usually goes.
If a woman ever runs to us for help—if—we don’t turn her away. We make sure she’s safe. We step in if someone’s crossing a line. But it’s not something I personally handle. That’s what prospects are for. That’s what brothers lower on the ladder deal with. I keep the wheels turning, make the calls, decide what happens next.
I don’t insert myself.
Yet here I am, somewhere between walking and running, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache, every instinct screaming that I need to be the one handling this.
Ink keeps pace beside me, quiet for once. The silence stretches until we’re halfway through the club, past the bar and toward the back hall.
Then he clears his throat.
“Prez,” he mutters. “You might wanna take it easy with her.”
I slow just a fraction, enough to register the tension in his voice.
“She told Ella,” he continues, choosing his words carefully, “that her teacher tried to rape her.”
The world goes red.
Not metaphorically. Not figuratively.
Red.
I stop dead, turn so fast Ink nearly collides with me. My hands curl into fists at my sides, muscles locking down like they’re preparing for violence.
Ink doesn’t flinch. He just nods once, grim. “She didn’t use the word at first. But that’s what it was.”
My chest tightens, something sharp lodging itself behind my sternum.
I’d suspected. I’d seen it in her body, the way fear lived under her skin, the way she reacted to touch before she realized she was safe. But suspicion and confirmation are two very different things.
“What else?” I ask, my voice low and dangerous. “What exactly did she say?”
Ink fills in the gaps as we start moving again. He tells me how Whitmore framed it as help—extra lessons, special attention. How that help came with expectations. Conditions. How he leveraged his authority, her status, her fear.
Every word adds fuel to the fire burning through me.
We deal in illegal shit. Everyone in the city knows that. We bend laws, break them when necessary. I’ve hurt men who deserved it, men bigger than me, men smaller than me—it doesn’t matter.
But there are lines we do not cross.
Women. Children.
Never.
By the time we reach the infirmary door, my pulse is pounding in my ears.
Before I even touch the handle, I hear her.
And it’s not the woman I left behind.
Gone is the quiet, shaking girl who clung to me like I was the only solid thing left in her world. Gone is the panicked breathing, the fragile stillness.
What replaces her is fire.
Her voice slices through the walls, raw and unfiltered, echoing down the hallway as she unleashes a stream of curses that would make half the brothers proud.
“Motherfucking piece of shit—”
That’s the last thing I catch before I open the door.
She snaps her head toward me instantly, eyes blazing. For half a second, she looks feral—like a cornered animal with teeth bared.
Then she sees me.
And just like that, the edge softens. Not gone. But muted.
Her shoulders drop a fraction. Her jaw unclenches.
My chest tightens all over again.
I take in the room in one sweep. Ink steps in behind me. Ella stands near the exam table, arms folded, expression torn between horror and barely contained amusement. Alexandra sits on the edge of the table, hands clenched.
She looks furious.
She looks humiliated.
“I’m sorry,” Ella says, shaking her head. “But calling someone a broken elevator in a government building? I don’t know whether to laugh or take notes.”
She scoffs, running a hand through her hair. “Fucking hell. I can’t believe I fell for this shit.”
The anger is still there, pouring out of her in waves, but underneath it I see the cracks. The shame creeping in. The self-blame.
Ella’s voice softens. “Do you want to tell us what happened? Start wherever you want.”
Alexandra hesitates.
Her gaze flicks to Ink. Then to me.
Then she looks down.
When she speaks again, the fury is still present—but now it’s tangled with something heavier.
“He told me to strip,” she says quietly. “Said we couldn’t start the lesson otherwise.”
My jaw locks.
“At first I laughed. Thought it was a joke. A bad one.” Her fingers curl tighter. “But he just stared at me. Like he was waiting.”
She swallows.
“I turned to grab my stuff and leave. That’s when he threatened me. Said I could get deported if I didn’t complete the semester.”
Ink mutters a curse.
“So I told him I’d call the police,” she continues. “And he laughed. Said a broke European student like me wouldn’t be able to afford that.”
My vision blurs at the edges.
“And I believed him,” she finishes bitterly. “I fucking believed him. So I ran.”
Silence crashes down over the room.
Disbelief is etched across every face. Rage simmers just beneath the surface.
She lets out a harsh laugh, shaking her head. “I see the looks you’re giving me. I get it. You think I’m an idiot.”
“No,” Ella says immediately.
“But to be fair,” Alexandra adds, gesturing vaguely, “this shithole of a country—no offense—charges people to call an ambulance. Like free healthcare isn’t a basic human right.” She huffs. “Police costing money didn’t seem that far-fetched.”
I move before I think. Before caution, before reason.
I step into her space and cup her face gently, my thumbs brushing the tear tracks she doesn’t seem aware of.
“No one here thinks you’re an idiot,” I say quietly. “Not for a second.”
The word slips out again, uninvited.
“Sweet.”
Her breath catches.
That’s twice now.
I’m acutely aware of it—of the fact that I don’t use pet names, don’t fall into habits like this. And yet it feels natural in a way that unsettles me. Like my mouth knows something my head hasn’t caught up to yet.
We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Too long to be polite. Too short to be enough.
Then Ella clears her throat.
“I told her she can stay here,” she says carefully. “We’ve got plenty of rooms.”
She pauses, glancing between us.
“She said she goes by Lex.”
Lex.
The name lands differently. Smaller, more familiar. Like something she chose.
The thought of her going back to campus—back to a place where Whitmore might still have access to her—makes my blood run cold.
Fuck no.
“That’s fine,” I say easily. Too easily. “I’ll show her where she can stay.”
Lex straightens, pride flaring. “I already told Ella I can help out. Cook, clean—whatever. I don’t want charity.”
I nod once. “Fair enough.”
I step back, giving her space, even though every instinct protests it.
“Come on,” I say. “I’ll get you settled.”
I turn toward the door, already knowing exactly which room I’ll put her in.