Chapter 22 Zane
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Zane
The crash rips through the bar loud as a gunshot.
I’m awake before I know I’m awake. Already moving. Already reaching for something solid in my hand.
Another sound follows. Glass raining down.
I’m down the stairs in seconds.
Cold air hits my face as I shove open the kitchen door.
The back window is gone.
Shattered inward. Glass everywhere. Whiskey bleeding down the brick as a wound. The neck of a smashed bottle still spins lazily on the floor.
There’s a note tied to it.
Ryder stands in the center of the wreckage, boots planted in broken glass, shoulders squared toward the alley, daring someone to still be there.
Finn is outside in the alley itself, half shadowed, scanning the rooftops and dumpsters with his phone light, one hand already tucked into the back of his waistband.
I step into the wreckage.
Glass crunches under my boots.
Ryder doesn’t look at me. He just hands me the note.
Three words. You will pay.
My vision narrows.
The air feels too thin.
Cole.
Of course it’s Cole.
My hand tightens around the paper until it crumples.
Then I crouch and start picking up glass.
The shards bite into my palms, slice into the thin skin near my thumb.
Good. Let them.
If I move, I’ll go looking for him.
And that would be a mistake.
The broom scrapes hard against the floor. I push the shards into a pile with more force than necessary. My jaw aches from clenching.
Ryder steps back toward the doorway but stays inside the kitchen, positioning himself between the open alley and the interior of the bar. He’s not relaxed. He’s guarding.
Finn slips back in from outside a moment later.
“Alley’s clear,” he says, but he doesn’t sound satisfied. He stations himself at the exterior door anyway, one shoulder against the frame, eyes still scanning.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps on the stairs.
“Aurora…” Finn starts.
She appears in the doorway to the kitchen, framed by dim hallway light. Sweater hanging loose off one shoulder. Hair tangled from sleep.
She takes in the broken window.
The glass.
The whiskey.
Ryder standing rigid near the alley.
Finn blocking the door.
Me kneeling in the middle of it.
Her face drains for half a heartbeat.
“What happened?” she asks. “I can help.”
My grip tightens on the broom. “No, Aurora.”
Ryder shifts slightly, instinctively angling himself so he’s between her and the open alley.
Finn straightens from the doorframe but doesn’t leave it. He’s guarding the exit.
All three of us are positioned around her without meaning to be.
She steps forward anyway.
Her bare feet stop just shy of the worst of the glass.
“I can help,” she repeats.
Anger flares, not at her, at the fact that she even feels she has to kneel in broken glass because of us.
Because of him.
“Stay back,” I say.
She grabs a dustpan from the hook by the sink and crouches too close to the counter.
“There’s glass everywhere,” I warn.
“I see it.”
Ryder is still near the alley door, phone to his ear now, as he talks to someone, insurance, maybe the sheriff, but his eyes keep tracking Aurora.
Finn has shifted fully inside, boots crunching as he circles wide, scanning the rest of the kitchen, making sure this is the only breach.
Aurora reaches for a larger shard.
It slips.
“Ah…”
Blood beads instantly along her fingertip.
I snap.
I’m at her before the drop hits the floor.
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine—”
“It’s not.”
Ryder’s conversation cuts off mid-sentence.
Finn’s head whips toward us.
I take her hand.
Her skin is warm. Pulse racing under my fingers. Not just from the cut, from fear. And that… that does something worse to me than the broken window did.
I press a clean towel to the slice, and she inhales sharply.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s just cold.”
No. She’s shaking.
Ryder steps closer but doesn’t interfere. He hovers near the end of the prep table, eyes flicking between her face and the window, calculating threat levels in real time.
Finn moves to the hallway entrance, planting himself there now. Guarding the interior instead of the alley.
I guide her to sit on the prep table, away from the glass. My hands don’t leave her. Not until she’s stable.
Ryder resumes his call quietly, turning slightly away to give space, but he doesn’t go far. Finn paces once, then stills, arms folded, jaw tight.
All I can see is the thin line of blood on her skin.
I rinse the cut under the sink. The water runs pink.
My jaw tightens so hard it hurts.
“This is my fault,” she whispers.
That makes me look up. “It’s not.”
“I defended you. I stood up. What if—”
“No.”
Ryder glances over at that. Doesn’t comment.
“This isn’t because of you,” I continue. “This is because he wants a reaction. It’s Cole.”
My hands are calm, even though my chest isn’t.
I dry her finger carefully. Inspect the cut. It’s not deep. Clean slice. It’ll close.
Still feels too much.
“You shouldn’t have been near it,” I say.
“You were.”
“I can take it. We all can.”
She meets my eyes.
“So can I.”
That almost makes me smile.
Finn mutters from the doorway, “You’re both bleeding. This is not the bonding moment we wanted.”
Neither of us answers him.
I wrap the gauze around her finger slowly, and it matters more than the shattered window.
Her breathing evens out as I work.
Mine doesn’t.
“You’re bleeding too,” she says softly.
I glance down. My knuckles have opened up. Blood mixed with whiskey and glass dust. “It’s nothing.”
“You matter too,” she says.
My throat tightens.
She dabs antiseptic onto my skin, and I don’t flinch, even though it burns.
Because the way she’s looking at me?
That burns worse.
My hand shifts from hers to her waist without thinking. Ryder sees it. He doesn’t react.
“You’re safe,” I tell her.
It’s not a promise I make lightly.
She searches my face, testing it.
“You don’t know that,” she whispers.
I lean closer, close enough that she can feel the steadiness in me.
“I do.”
Because if he wants to escalate?
Fine.
If he wants to throw glass?
Fine.
He doesn’t get to touch her. We won’t allow it.
By noon, the window’s boarded, stronger than what was there before.
Ryder handles insurance. Finn runs camera angles again. Aurora stays busy, too busy, answering emails at the end of the bar as if productivity can outrun fear.
It can’t.
But I let her try.
I keep seeing the blood on her finger.
I need something permanent that doesn’t shatter.
So I grab my keys and don’t tell anyone where I’m going, just that I need a moment.
Ink & Iron smells of antiseptic and coffee and metal.
It’s loud in a different way than The Hollow. Machines buzzing. Low music. Laughter that feels earned.
Mitchell looks up first from behind the counter. He’s broad, sharp, sleeves of ink disappearing under a black tee.
“Well,” he says, slow grin forming. “If it isn’t the quiet one from The Hollow.”
“I talk,” I reply.
“Rarely,” Timothy calls from the back room. “It’s good to really meet you, man.”
Freddie swivels around in his chair, goggles pushed up on his forehead. “You look like you want to punch something.”
“I already did.”
Mitchell’s eyes narrow slightly. “Oh, dear. Is this drama related to the bar?”
I nod once.
That’s all it takes.
Timothy steps into the main room, wiping his hands on a cloth. He’s calmer than Freddie, but sharper. Watches details.
“What happened?”
“Bottle thrown through the window.”
Freddie’s jaw tightens. “Ballsy.”
“Calculated,” Timothy corrects. “Doesn’t seem like something Wren would do.”
Mitchell studies my face. “Anyone hurt?”
“Aurora cut her finger.”
Freddie’s mouth flattens. “Bad?”
“No.”
Mitchell exhales. “Still.”
Yeah.
Still.
I lean back against the wall.
“I need something,” I say.
Freddie perks up immediately. “Oh, we love that sentence.”
Timothy folds his arms. “Meaning?”
“Something permanent.”
Mitchell’s gaze sharpens. “Impulsive permanent or thought through permanent?”
“Thought through. Ish.”
Freddie grins. “That’s boring but respectable.”
I stare at the flash art lining the walls.
Roses. Daggers. Wolves. Ravens.
None of it’s right.
“It’s not a name,” I say.
Mitchell nods once. “Good.”
“It’s not obvious.”
“Better,” Timothy adds.
Freddie hops down from his chair. “So what is it?”
I rub a hand over my jaw.
“It’s a window,” I say finally.
They all blink.
Freddie squints. “You want a house?”
“No.”
Mitchell tilts his head. “Explain.”
I take a breath.
“Broken glass,” I say. “But mended. Reinforced. Something that doesn’t look fragile even if it cracked once.”
Timothy’s expression shifts first. Understanding.
Freddie nods slowly. “Kintsugi vibes.”
I glance at him.
“Japanese pottery,” he explains. “They repair cracks with gold so the break becomes part of the design.”
Mitchell leans on the counter. “So you want the break honored.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Timothy asks quietly.
I don’t hesitate.
“Because she didn’t run.”
Freddie whistles softly.
Mitchell studies me carefully. “You’re marking her? Now that feels serious.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Freddie says immediately. “You are.”
“It’s not ownership,” I say. “It can’t be. I mean, she isn’t going to be here for long. She’s leaving…” Even if I can’t envision that, I keep needing to remind myself that it’s real. “It’s just a moment.”
Mitchell lifts a brow. “I see.”
Timothy is calm. “It’s a moment.”
“Yes.”
Freddie grabs a sketch pad. “So. Broken pane. Gold seams. Maybe subtle. Not a literal window.”
Mitchell nods. “Could abstract it. Fracture lines across something solid.”
Timothy taps the counter thoughtfully. “Placement?”
I roll up my sleeve without answering.
Forearm.
Inside.
Where I’ll see it every time I reach for something.
Freddie grins. “Oh, he’s serious.”
Mitchell gestures toward the chair. “Sit.”
I sit.
Timothy sets up the station with efficient movements. Freddie starts sketching.
“You know Ivy’s going to ask,” Freddie says casually.
“Ivy asks everything,” I reply.
Mitchell smirks. “True. She’s nosy, and she has taken a real liking to Aurora.”
Freddie laughs. “Doesn’t it feel strange that Ivy wasn’t always here? Now it feels like if she isn’t in the center of something, it isn’t happening.”
Timothy glances at my forearm as he lays out clean paper and a little tray of ink caps. “You sure you want it there? That’s a high-visibility spot.”
“That’s the point.”
Freddie looks up, eyes bright. “Oh, he has feelings feelings.”
“I have…,” I start, then stop.
Freddie’s grin goes feral. “Say it. Say the word.”
Timothy’s tone is mild. “He won’t.”
Mitchell leans on the counter, amused. “He’ll say ‘logistical concern,’ and we’ll all pretend that means love.”
“I don’t love…” I begin.
Freddie points at me with his pen. “He said the L word. He tried.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did,” Freddie insists.
I roll my eyes. These guys barely know me, I’m not going to take their teasing to heart.
Timothy nudges the chair with his foot. “All right. Forearm flat.”
I do it.
Freddie finishes his sketch, rips the page free, and slides it toward me.
It’s clean. Minimal. A dark panel, almost a solid bar of shadow, with fractures running through it. The cracks aren’t all over the place. They’re deliberate. The pane broke, but didn’t collapse. And threaded through the breaks are thin lines of gold, bright and stubborn.
Not pretty.
Strong.
“Thoughts?” Freddie asks.
“It’s good,” I say.
Freddie gasps. “Wow. A compliment. Write it down.”
Mitchell taps the counter. “He’ll regret that in five minutes.”
Timothy reaches for transfer gel. “Placement check.”
Freddie steps around, holding the stencil over my inner forearm. “Like this. You’ll see it when you reach. When you build. When you fix.”
Timothy peels the stencil paper away. The outline clings to my skin in purple lines, the shape of a break turned into something designed.
Freddie steps back, evaluating carefully. “Nice. Real nice.”
He glances at Timothy. “You want to do the linework?”
Timothy shakes his head. “It’s his idea. He should get the honors.”
Freddie’s grin widens. “Aw, look at you two. Sharing.”
Mitchell points toward the chair. “All right. Let’s get it done before he changes his mind and runs into the woods.”
“I don’t run,” I say flatly.
Freddie flips the machine on, and the buzz fills the room. “Everyone says that. Then they see the needle.”
I look at the needle.
Then at him.
“I’ve had worse.”
“Well then,” Freddie says with a grin. “Time to get to work.”