Chapter 14
The compound looked like a warzone in the morning light.
Trawler moved through the damage with methodical focus, cataloging broken windows and bullet holes, assessing structural integrity, making mental lists of repairs that needed to happen before nightfall.
The work was familiar, grounding—something concrete to focus on while his mind processed everything that had happened in the dark hours before dawn.
Eight of Jessup's men dead. Two brothers wounded. Property damage that would take weeks to fully repair.
And Bethany, who'd killed for the first time and then fallen apart in his arms in the best possible way.
He found Anchor in the main room, the president studying a map spread across the scarred wooden table. Hurricane was there too, shoulder bandaged but mobile, that cold smile replaced with something grimmer.
"Trawler." Anchor looked up as he approached. "Damage report?"
"Structural's intact. Lost the east fence, most of the windows on that side. Garage took some hits but nothing critical." He stopped at the table's edge, reading the map upside down. Routes marked, positions noted, Jessup's known territory highlighted in red. "What's our move?"
"That's what we're figuring out." Anchor's steady gaze held the weight of leadership—decisions that could get men killed, responsibility that never lightened. "Jessup's hurt. Lost Dunlap, lost Parrish, lost half his crew. He's either going to retreat and regroup, or—"
"Escalate," Hurricane finished. "Hit back harder while he's still got momentum."
"Which do you think?"
Trawler considered. He'd studied Jessup's file, learned the man's patterns. Decade of successful operation, built on fear and consistency. Men like that didn't retreat—their whole empire depended on being seen as invincible.
"Escalate," he said. "But not here. We proved we can defend the compound. He'll hit something softer."
Anchor's jaw tightened. "The bar."
The words landed like a punch. The Rusty Hook—Bethany's bar, her life's work, standing empty and vulnerable in Port Mason.
"We've got prospects watching it," Hurricane said. "Two men, rotating shifts."
"Against Jessup's full crew?" Trawler shook his head. "It's not enough."
"We don't have the manpower to guard everything," Anchor replied, voice heavy. "Not while we're repairing here, not while we're hunting Jessup. Something has to give."
Trawler's hands curled into fists at his sides. He knew Anchor was right—knew the math didn't work, knew they couldn't be everywhere at once. But the thought of Bethany's bar burning while they debated strategy made something in his chest twist painfully.
"I'll talk to her," he said. "She deserves to know the risk."
Anchor nodded. "Do that. Then we need to plan our next move. Jessup's bleeding—we need to press the advantage before he recovers."
He found Bethany behind the compound bar, because of course that's where she was.
She'd thrown herself into work the moment she woke up, cleaning glass and organizing bottles and generally making herself useful in the way she always did when she needed to process something.
Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, but there was a tightness in her shoulders that told him she wasn't as composed as she appeared.
"You should be resting," he said.
"I should be doing a lot of things." She didn't look up from the glass she was polishing. "Resting isn't one of them."
He moved behind the bar, crowding into her space the way he'd learned she secretly liked. She leaned back against him automatically, her body recognizing his even when her mind was elsewhere.
"How are you doing?" he asked quietly. "Really?"
"Honestly? I don't know." She set down the glass and turned in his arms, dark eyes finding his. "I keep waiting for the breakdown. The guilt, the nightmares, the whatever's supposed to happen after you kill someone. But it's not coming. I just feel... tired."
"That's normal."
"Is it? Because I feel like a monster for not feeling worse."
"You're not a monster." He cupped her face, forcing her to hold his gaze. "You're a survivor. There's a difference."
She searched his eyes for a long moment, looking for something. He didn't know what she found, but some of the tension bled from her shoulders.
"You've done this before," she said softly. "Killed people. Multiple people."
"Yes."
"Does it ever get easier?"
The question hit harder than he expected. He thought about all the violence he'd committed—in his bouncer years, with the club, for her. The bodies that had fallen because he was faster, stronger, more willing to do what needed doing.
"No," he admitted. "But you learn to carry it. Make peace with the weight."
"Is that what you've done? Made peace?"
Trawler went still. She was pushing, he realized. Not about last night—about everything. About Elena, about the guilt he carried like a second skin, about the parts of himself he'd never shown anyone.
"I'm not sure I know how."
Bethany's hands found his chest, pressing flat over his heart. "Tell me about her. Not the facts—you already told me those. Tell me what it did to you. How it changed you."
He should deflect. Should redirect to safer territory, to the tactical discussions and defensive preparations that needed his attention. But she was looking at him with those dark eyes that saw too much, and he found himself speaking instead.
"I was good at my job," he started slowly. "The best. Fifteen years of keeping people safe, and I'd never lost anyone. Not once. I thought that meant something—thought it made me special. Invincible."
"And Elena?"
"Elena taught me I wasn't." He closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him. "I trusted Terry because I'd worked with him before. Because he seemed solid. Because I was arrogant enough to think I could read people perfectly."
"You made a mistake."
"I made a choice. And someone else paid for it." His voice roughened. "Do you know what that's like? Standing in a hospital, looking at a woman with tubes in her arms and bandages on her face, knowing it's your fault?"
"Trawler—"
"She trusted me." The words came faster now, dragged from somewhere deep. "Put her life in my hands because I promised I could keep her safe. And I failed. I watched the wrong door, trusted the wrong man, and she almost died because of it."
Bethany was quiet, listening. Not offering platitudes, not rushing to comfort. Just... present.
"I went to pieces after," he continued. "Quit my job, drank myself half to death, pushed away everyone who tried to help. I wanted to disappear. Wanted to stop existing so I wouldn't have to carry what I'd done."
"But you didn't disappear."
"Anchor found me." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Dragged me out of that parking lot and gave me something to live for again. The club, the brotherhood, the chance to protect people who actually needed protecting."
"So you've spent three years trying to make up for one terrible night."
"Yes."
Her hands slid up to his face, cupping his jaw, holding him in place. "And how's that working out for you?"
The question cut deeper than any blade. He opened his mouth, closed it, found himself without words.
"Trawler." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You can't save Elena. What happened to her is done. Carrying that guilt forever, punishing yourself forever—it won't change anything. It won't bring her back. It won't undo what happened."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you've built your whole life around that one failure. Everything you do, every door you watch, every threat you assess—it's all about proving you're not the man who let her down."
His chest ached. She was right—he knew she was right—but hearing it spoken aloud was different. Sharper.
"What am I supposed to do?" The question came out raw. "Just... forget? Move on like it never happened?"
"No. You honor it by living." She held his gaze with fierce intensity. "You take what you learned—the vigilance, the awareness, all of it—and you use it to protect the people in front of you. Not as penance. As purpose."
"There's a difference?"
"God, yes." She pulled him down until their foreheads touched. "Penance is about punishment. It's about suffering because you think you deserve it. Purpose is about choosing to be better, do better, without destroying yourself in the process."
Trawler's breath came out shaky. He'd never thought about it that way—never separated the guilt from the growth, the punishment from the protection.
"You see me," he said quietly. "The real me. Not just the muscle or the silence or the—"
"I see a man who cared too much and got hurt for it. Who turned that hurt into something meaningful instead of letting it break him." Her thumb traced his cheekbone. "I see someone worth loving, Trawler. Even if he doesn't see it himself."
The words hit him like a wave, threatening to pull him under. Worth loving. He'd spent so long convinced he wasn't—that Elena's scars had disqualified him from deserving anything good.
"I don't know how to let it go," he admitted. "The weight. It's been part of me so long, I don't know who I am without it."
"You don't have to let it go all at once. Just... loosen your grip a little." She smiled, soft and knowing. "Let someone else help you carry it."
"You?"
"Me. Your brothers. Everyone who cares about you." She kissed him gently. "You've spent three years saving other people. Maybe it's time to let someone save you back."
"Bethany..."
"You already saved me," she continued, cutting off his protest. "From Jessup, from burning alone, from a life of watching doors and waiting for the worst. You did that. You changed everything by standing up in my bar that night."
He pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her like oxygen. She felt solid against him—real, present, his.
"Maybe it's time to let that count," she said softly against his chest. "Not as penance. Not as another debt you owe. Just... let it count. Let saving me be enough."
Something cracked in his chest. Not breaking—opening. A door he'd kept locked for three years, finally letting light seep through.
He couldn't fix what happened to Elena. Couldn't go back and watch the right door, trust the right people. That failure would always be part of him.
But maybe—maybe—it didn't have to be all of him.
"I don't know if I can," he said honestly.
"You don't have to know." She looked up at him, eyes bright. "You just have to try. One day at a time. One choice at a time."
He thought about the weight he'd carried for so long. The guilt, the vigilance, the relentless drive to prove himself worthy through protection. It hadn't gotten lighter—he wasn't sure it ever would.
But standing here, with Bethany in his arms and her words echoing in his ears, he thought maybe he could learn to carry it differently.
Not alone.
"Okay," he said. The word felt like a promise. "I'll try."
Her smile was worth everything—the pain, the fear, the vulnerability of letting someone see him whole.
"That's all I'm asking."