Chapter Seven
Kristin couldn't stop seeing the bodies.
She stood in the main room of the converted tobacco warehouse, surrounded by exposed brick and military memorabilia and men who moved like violence was their native language, and all she could think about was the way Mitch Garvey had crumpled when those bullets hit him.
The way his blood had looked black in the moonlight.
The way Ripcord hadn't hesitated. Not for a second.
"Hey." His voice, close to her ear. His hand on the small of her back, warm and solid. "You with me?"
"I'm here." She forced herself to focus. "Just... processing."
"Take your time." He guided her deeper into the clubhouse, past a bar built from reclaimed military pallets, past walls covered with patches and photos and the particular history of men who'd served.
"This is home base. Chapel's through that door—that's where church happens.
Club business, votes, the serious stuff. "
"And this?" She gestured at the main room, the pool tables and worn couches and the particular energy of a space that had seen a lot of living.
"This is family." Something softened in his voice. "Where we celebrate, where we grieve, where we remind each other why we do what we do."
A man approached—tall, weathered, with silver hair and eyes that assessed her in a single glance. Kristin recognized command presence when she saw it.
"Legion," Ripcord said. "This is Kristin."
"The pilot." Legion's voice carried weight without volume. "Heard you kept your head tonight. Stayed down when the shooting started, didn't panic when it stopped. That's not nothing."
"I didn't have much choice."
"There's always a choice." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Most people choose to fall apart. You chose to stay functional. That earns respect around here."
He moved on before she could respond, heading toward a cluster of men who were clearly waiting for him. Kristin watched him go, still processing.
Respect. From a man who led other men into combat. Because she'd managed not to scream while people died around her.
The bar was still open.
"You want a drink?" Ripcord asked.
"I want about six drinks. But I'll settle for one."
He almost smiled. "Bourbon okay?"
"Bourbon's perfect."
They moved to the bar, and Kristin let herself lean against the worn wood while Ripcord poured. The compound was quieter now—most of the brothers had dispersed to debriefs or guard rotations or whatever came next in the endless cycle of a club at war.
But they weren't alone.
Two women approached from across the room. One was blonde, mid-thirties, with the easy confidence of someone who'd learned to be comfortable in uncomfortable spaces. The other was darker, with practical clothes and calloused hands that suggested physical work.
"Rebecca," the blonde said, extending her hand. "Cargo's old lady. And this is Allison—she's with Static."
"Kristin." She shook both hands, noting the way they assessed her without judgment. "I'm... I guess I'm with Ripcord. For now."
"For now." Rebecca's smile was knowing. "That's what I said too. About six months ago."
"It tends to become permanent around here," Allison added. "These men don't do temporary."
Kristin glanced at Ripcord, who was watching the exchange with an expression she couldn't quite read. Possessive, maybe. Or protective. The line between them seemed to blur where he was concerned.
"Come sit with us," Rebecca said. "Let the boys do their thing. You look like you could use some normal conversation."
Normal. Kristin almost laughed.
But she followed them to a corner booth anyway, bourbon in hand, grateful for the chance to sit somewhere that didn't require her to think about gunfire and bodies and the particular look in a man's eyes when he died.
"First time seeing them work?" Allison asked.
"That obvious?"
"You've got the look." Rebecca's voice was kind. "Shell-shocked but holding it together. Processing but not falling apart. It gets easier."
"Does it?"
"No." Allison shrugged. "But you get better at carrying it."
Kristin took a long drink of bourbon.
"I watched a man die tonight. Watched Ripcord kill him. And the thing that scares me most isn't that it happened—it's that I'm glad it did."
The words came out before she could stop them. Confession to strangers, because strangers were sometimes easier than people who knew you.
Rebecca and Allison exchanged a look.
"Garvey was the one who killed your partner," Rebecca said. "Cut his fuel line and watched him crash. He would have killed you too, given the chance."
"I know."
"Then being glad he's dead isn't something to be scared of. It's something to be honest about." Allison leaned forward. "These men—our men—they do hard things so other people don't have to. If you're going to be part of this world, you need to make peace with that."
"What if I can't?"
"Then you leave." Rebecca's voice was gentle but firm. "No one will stop you. No one will judge you. But if you stay, you accept what staying means."
Kristin looked across the room to where Ripcord stood with Ghost and Forge, deep in conversation about something that was probably tactical and violent and necessary. He must have felt her gaze, because he looked up, met her eyes.
Even from across the room, she felt the connection.
The pull.
"He's different with you." Allison's voice was thoughtful. "Ripcord's always been... distant. Like he's not quite here, you know? But tonight, watching him watch you—"
"He's present," Rebecca finished. "Grounded. That's not nothing for a man who spends most of his time trying to escape gravity."
Kristin didn't know what to say to that.
She finished her bourbon instead.
An hour later, Ripcord walked her to the guest quarters—a small room attached to the main building, private but close enough to the clubhouse that help was seconds away if needed.
"You'll be safe here," he said, standing in the doorway. "Security's tight, and there's always someone on watch."
"I believe you."
"Good." He hesitated, like there was something more he wanted to say. "What Rebecca and Allison told you—about this life, about what it means to stay—"
"They told me the truth." Kristin met his eyes. "I appreciate that. Honesty's been in short supply lately."
"They're good people. All the old ladies are. They've chosen this life, same as the brothers. Different roles, same commitment."
"Is that what you're asking me? To commit?"
The question hung between them.
Ripcord stepped closer, close enough that she could smell leather and gunpowder and something underneath that was purely him.
"I'm asking you to give it a chance." His voice was rough. "I know tonight was hard. I know you saw things that can't be unseen. But Kristin—what's happening between us, whatever this is—it's real. And I'm not ready to let it go."
Her heart hammered.
"I barely know you."
"You know enough." His hand found her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "You know I'll kill to protect you. You know I won't lie to you. You know that being with you is the first time in three years I've wanted to stay on the ground."
"That's not knowing someone. That's..."
"That's a start." He leaned down, pressed his forehead to hers. "Give me more time. Let me show you who I am when I'm not fighting. When this is over and Stanton's dead and you've got your airfield back—let me show you what we could be."
She should have said no.
Should have maintained distance, kept boundaries, protected herself from a man whose life was violence and danger and all the things she'd spent years avoiding.
Instead, she tilted her chin up and kissed him.
Soft at first, then deeper. His hands found her waist, pulled her against him. She tasted bourbon and adrenaline and something sweeter underneath—hope, maybe. Or the beginning of surrender.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Ripcord's eyes were blazing.
"Stay," he said.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I mean stay. Here. With me. Not in the guest room—in my room. Let me hold you tonight."
The request was raw. Vulnerable. A man who'd spent years running from connection, asking for exactly that.
"Just hold me?"
"Just hold you." His voice cracked. "I need to know you're safe. Need to feel you breathing. After tonight, after everything—I need that."
She should have said no.
She said yes.
Ripcord's room was sparse—military neat, few personal effects, the space of a man who wasn't used to staying in one place. But the bed was large, the sheets were clean, and when he pulled her against his chest, Kristin felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Safe.
Truly, completely safe.
"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder.
"For what?"
"For not making me be alone tonight."
His arms tightened around her.
"You're not alone anymore. Whatever happens next, whatever Stanton throws at us—you're not facing it by yourself."
She believed him.
That was the terrifying part.
Outside, the distant drone of aircraft filled the Carolina night—C-130s banking toward Fort Liberty, helicopters running night operations, the constant pulse of military aviation that never quite stopped in this part of the country.
Kristin lay awake listening to it.
The sky had always been her escape. Her freedom. The one place where the ground couldn't touch her and problems seemed smaller from altitude.
But she couldn't reach it now.
Her airfield was occupied. Her planes were being searched by men who'd killed her partner. The future she'd built was in the hands of enemies who wanted her dead.
The sky sounded different when you couldn't reach it.
It sounded like loss.
Ripcord's breathing had evened out—not quite sleep, but the deep rest of a man who'd learned to grab peace wherever he could find it. His arms were still around her, warm and solid, an anchor to a world that had gone sideways.
Tomorrow they'd hunt for whatever Danny had hidden.
Tomorrow they'd continue a war against a drug lord who'd already killed to protect his empire.
Tomorrow the violence would resume.
But tonight, wrapped in the arms of a man she barely knew but somehow trusted, Kristin let herself rest.
The sky would still be there when this was over.
And maybe—if she survived long enough—she'd find her way back to it.