Chapter Ten #2
Kane’s hand covered my thigh under the table, fingers tightening. His voice stayed low, right beside me. “Hey.”
I stared at my plate like the eggs could solve this. “Don’t. It’s… fine.”
His gaze tracked toward the doorway. I felt the exact moment he decided to stand up and go handle it. Violence wasn’t the first tool in his belt, but it lived close enough to be reached fast.
I caught his wrist under the table. “Please.”
His jaw flexed. “Jade --”
“They’re not wrong.” The words hurt coming out, but they were true enough to slice. “I walked in here with a storm behind me and parked it on your lawn. You all chose to let me stay. He gets to feel some kind of way about it.”
Kane’s voice stayed controlled, though an edge sharpened beneath. “Running his mouth where you can hear crosses a line. We don’t accept such behavior.”
Marci materialized at Kane’s shoulder and smacked the back of his head. The blow landed somewhere between gentle and stern -- a correction, nothing more.
“Sit down,” she ordered.
Kane glared up. “Did you hear --”
“I heard everything.” Marci’s eyes flashed with warning. “General caught every word too. He’s already addressing the situation.”
My gaze followed hers across the room. General now stood by the doorway, his massive frame blocking any exit. One hand rested on the doorframe. Calm radiated from his stance instead of anger, which made him infinitely more intimidating.
The two men stiffened. General spoke to them without raising his voice.
I couldn’t hear the words over the clink of plates and the low rumble of the room, but I saw the effect.
One of them swallowed hard. The other nodded too fast. The guy who’d been complaining glanced toward me, shame flickering across his face.
He shifted like he meant to walk over. General’s hand landed on his shoulder, steering him away toward the back hall.
Firm. Final. Like a father dragging a kid out of a store before the kid embarrassed himself worse.
Marci leaned closer to me. “Handled.”
“I don’t want anyone getting in trouble because of me.”
Marci’s tone remained firm without softening. “They got in trouble for breaking code. We never talk about people as expendable background characters. Not old ladies. Not kids. Not guests.”
Her words slammed into me harder than any complaint ever could. Marci believed what she said. She meant every syllable. The club operated under clear rules, and apparently one stood above many others: human beings deserved respect, not objectification.
Kane’s voice threaded in, quiet and stubborn. “It’s our mess.”
I wanted to believe him so badly my chest hurt.
Casey called from the kitchen doorway. “Spade’s ready for you. He’s got more of Jason’s chicken scratch and he’s vibrating about it.”
“Chicken scratch is generous,” I muttered, pushing my plate away. I’d eaten enough to stop the hollow ache in my stomach. The rest of me still felt raw.
Kane rose with me. “I’ll walk you.”
“I don’t need an escort across the building.”
“Maybe I want to,” he shot back, and the way he looked at me left no room for argument. So I let him.
* * *
I’d been helping Spade for a while, doing what little I could. It felt like we weren’t getting anywhere fast, even though I knew we’d made progress.
The door opened. Kane leaned in. “You two still alive?”
“Barely.” Spade waved a hand toward me. “She’s tapped. I’m not scraping her off the floor.”
Kane’s gaze traveled across my face, lingering on the redness rimming my eyes and the tightness in my jaw. He remained silent, stepping forward with his hand extended between us -- a wordless question I could answer or ignore.
“Come on,” he murmured. “I’m stealing you.”
Spade pointed at Kane without looking away from his screen. “Take her. Bring her back later if her brain still works. Also bring me coffee.”
“Addict,” I muttered as Kane guided me out.
“Pot, kettle,” Spade shot back.
Kane’s hand settled on the small of my back in the hall, warm and steady. “You okay?”
I didn’t pretend anymore. “I feel like someone wrung me out and hung me up to dry.”
“Range?” Kane asked. “Couch? Bed?”
“Are those my only options?”
“Pretty much.” His mouth twitched. “Food is in there too, but you actually ate.”
“Range.”
Kane’s eyes warmed, pride flashing for a split second. “That’s my girl.”
* * *
The range behind the shop looked the same as it always had -- berm, targets, tables, a few brass casings glinting in the dirt where someone had missed cleaning up. The normalcy of it helped. Familiar space. Familiar rules.
Kane handed me my gun and ear protection. “Same rules. We go slow. We stop if you overload.”
“Overload,” I repeated, adjusting the earmuffs.
“Buzz out. Overheat. Whatever your brain calls it when your body starts screaming.”
“I’ll tell you.”
He didn’t hover. He stayed close enough to catch me if my hands failed, but he gave me room to own it. That mattered more than he probably understood.
I loaded. Racked. Positioned my feet. Aligned my sights. The steps flowed faster now -- my hands had carved a path through panic.
My first shot cracked across the range. Recoil punched up through my arms. Gunpowder smell wrapped around me, sharp and real.
A hole appeared on the paper silhouette, landing under the collarbone. Not perfect. Not terrible.
Kane’s voice warmed. “Nice. Again.”
I fired again. Then again. My breathing steadied into the rhythm of the work. The fear didn’t vanish, but it stopped driving. It sat in the back seat, glaring, while I kept my eyes on the front sight.
By the end of the first magazine, my arms buzzed with adrenaline. By the middle of the second, something in my chest loosened. Not joy. Not rage. Control.
The slide locked back on the last round. I lowered the gun slowly, breathing hard. Sweat dampened my palms.
“Enough?” Kane asked.
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “I don’t want to shake and undo it.”
Kane took the pistol, cleared the chamber, and set the weapon down. Every movement conveyed care and respect, as though both my nerves and the gun deserved equal consideration.
When he turned back to me, the heat in his eyes made my knees wobble worse than the recoil had.
“Keep staring at me with those eyes,” I mumbled, aiming for humor while my chest constricted, “and I might forget which end of the gun goes where.”
A low laugh. “Then I’ll put it away. Can’t have my girl distracted around live rounds.”
“My girl,” I echoed, the words still too big to sit comfortably on my tongue.
“Yeah.” No flourish. No joke. Just truth.
His words “my girl” burrowed deeper each time he said them, as though they’d carved permanent homes beneath my skin.
The compound transformed when late afternoon arrived, becoming even more active than before.
I watched men move with purpose across the compound.
Spade darted between the office and yard clutching his tablet, barking orders nobody questioned.
Atilla huddled in the garage with General and Rook, their voices dropping whenever anyone walked past. Knuckles sat at a picnic table cleaning weapons, arranging magazines in perfect rows the way he arranged everything.
Marci caught my eye and beckoned me toward the small meeting room adjacent to the kitchen. When I entered, I saw a whiteboard propped against the wall, colorful markers scattered across the table, and papers stacked in neat piles -- someone’s attempt to organize approaching chaos.
“Good,” Marci called. “Sit.”
I slid into a chair beside Casey. Solena sat across from us with her hands folded, calm as a nurse and twice as intimidating.
“What is this?” I asked, eyeing the board.
Solena’s mouth twitched. “War council. Old lady edition.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“Only if you’re on the wrong side of us,” Casey muttered.
Marci tapped the top of the whiteboard with a marker. In all caps, someone had written: IF THEY COME.
Underneath were bullet points.
Get kids to safe room.
Call chain.
Med kit.
Defensive positions.
My stomach tightened. “Safe room?”
“Basement,” Solena explained. “Under the clubhouse. Reinforced storage room. Used to hold kegs. We cleared it out, added cots, water, snacks. Not pretty, but it’ll hold.”
“You have a panic room,” I breathed.
Marci’s eyes narrowed. “We have a plan. Club’s had one for years. We refreshed it. Recent… developments.”
By developments, she meant Diaz. By developments, my brain insisted she meant me.
Casey’s knee bumped mine under the table. “Brood later. Listen now.”
Marci tapped the board again. “Jobs. Everyone has one.”
She pointed to herself. “I’m eyes and call chain. I’m the one who decides when we go to ground.”
Her marker moved. “Casey handles kids. She knows every quirk, every meltdown sign, every trick that gets them moving without panic.”
Solena’s turn. “Med kit. I stock it. I run it. I’ve got a Prospect assigned as backup.”
Then Marci’s gaze settled on me. “You.”
My spine straightened. “Me?”
Solena leaned forward slightly. “We’re not locking you in a closet and telling you to pray. Not how this works. You’re part of us. You get a job.”
My pulse kicked. “What kind of job?”
“When the call goes to move, you’re with Casey.” Marci’s voice stayed matter-of-fact. “You help get kids to the safe room. You go armed.”
Her eyes flicked to the gun at my hip. My hand went instinctively toward it, as if touching it could make me braver.
My throat tightened. “You want me guarding kids?” Panic tried to climb my ribs. “What if I freeze?”
Casey’s gaze snapped to mine. “What if you don’t? What if you become one more set of eyes and hands getting my kids and everyone else’s into a room where Diaz can’t touch them? Would I hand you this job if I didn’t trust you?”
“I’ve had a gun for” -- I hesitated -- “barely two days.”
Solena leaned forward, her expression remaining calm. “And during those days, you’ve shot better than some men do in their first week. We aren’t asking you to become a soldier. We want you to do exactly what you did when you showed up at Kane’s door -- move forward while scared.”
My throat clogged with emotion. The weight of responsibility pressed down on me. Their trust overwhelmed me. The fear of breaking something precious made my hands shake.
Marci leaned in. “You want to punch Roth and Diaz in the face? This is how.”
Casey’s little girl had placed a tiara on my head with solemn ceremony. The memory warmed me. I remembered the children lined up with crayons, laughing, oblivious to cartel politics.
“Okay.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “I’ll do it.”
Marci’s mouth softened. “Good. Settled.”
Casey reached over and squeezed my hand. “We’ll run drills. You won’t go in cold.”
“Drills,” I repeated weakly.
Casey’s grin turned wicked. “You thought we stopped at lists and stress-baking? Nah, honey. We might bake cookies, but we’re made of steel.”
* * *
They weren’t joking about the drills.
Marci timed us with her phone. How fast we could gather kids from different corners of the clubhouse. How quickly we could get down the stairs. How smoothly we could lock the door and settle everyone enough to keep them quiet if it ever became real.
The first run was chaos.
Crayons scattered across the floor in rainbow chaos.
A little boy with a bowl cut dropped his toy truck and planted himself, refusing to budge until I promised we’d retrieve his precious cargo.
Casey’s daughter ran between us, pigtails bouncing, asking “Are we playing a game?” while giggling and darting around our legs.
My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I feared I might vomit.
Casey moved through the children with natural grace. Her voice remained cheerful yet firm, her hands never hesitated, transforming what could have become terror into an exciting challenge with prizes.
The third practice run flowed more smoothly -- a coordinated effort rather than wild scrambling. Children remembered their path downstairs. They knew whose hand to hold. The basement lost its scariness because we adults never flinched when entering.
My gun felt heavy on my hip the entire time. Not because I wanted to use it. Because it reminded me what we were training for.
When we finished, sweaty and out of breath, Marci checked her watch. “Faster,” she announced. “Not bad. We shave thirty seconds off and I’m satisfied.”
“I thought I left gym class behind,” I muttered, wiping my forehead.
Casey snorted. “Welcome to the only phys ed that matters.”
Later, after the kids went down for naps and the men vanished into another closed-door meeting, I found myself back at our house. The quiet was different there. Deeper. Like the silence had thicker walls.
I stood in the living room staring at the picture frame on the shelf. Mom smiled from behind glass. Jason wrapped his arm around my shoulders. My younger face beamed with a carefree expression belonging to someone else entirely.
The knowledge burned through me -- Victor had touched this frame, pried the photo off my wall, treated my family memories as nothing but a means to an end.
I picked it up, turned it over. Something in my chest burned, hot and ugly.
I placed the frame back on the shelf with exaggerated care, as though the trembling rage inside me might somehow shatter the glass and destroy these last remnants of my past.