Chapter Twelve #2
The two of them stare at each other, and for half a second I see the whole of their relationship written between them. Blood. Want. War. Choice. A man trying to keep a woman behind glass and a woman teaching him how expensive cages can be.
Savage loses first. Or maybe he chooses.
“Back line,” he says. “With Saint.”
Raven nods. “See? Growth.”
Saint mutters, “I hate being assigned guard duty.”
I tune out their bickering and walk away, breathing through the rage so I can plan properly. Because I’m going exactly where Reaper expects. The loading bay.
Alone.
Not because I’m stupid but because Reaper needs to believe I am.
The earbud crackles once. Saint’s voice. “Are you sure about this?”
“No.”
“That’s encouraging.”
I check my gun, my knife, and the broken trauma shear tucked into my pocket.
“No one fires near Harper unless there’s no other choice,” I say.
Savage answers this time. “Copy.”
Raven’s voice cuts in right after. “And Steel?”
“What?”
“If she tells you to stop, you stop.”
My jaw tightens. “I know.”
“I’m not saying it because I doubt you,” she says. “I’m saying it because Reaper will try to make you forget.”
I breathe in deeply. The night smells like rust, rot, and old blood. “He won’t.”
I step out of the dark and walk toward the loading bay. One guard sees me, and he raises his gun. I shoot him in the knee, and his scream echoes off the concrete.
Perfect, let Reaper hear me coming.
The second guard runs away from me, and I let him.
Inside, the slaughterhouse smells like old death. Chains sway overhead, and my boots splash through shallow puddles that could be water but probably aren’t.
A speaker crackles above me somewhere, and Reaper laughs. “Steel. Such a good dog.” I keep walking. “You came alone?” I don’t answer. “You know, I thought she’d make you softer. Turns out she made you predictable.”
A light snaps on at the far end of the kill floor.
Harper is tied to a chair beneath it, and my heart stops. She has blood on her temple, a split lip, and bruising around one cheekbone. Her wrists are bound behind her, but her spine is straight. Her eyes lock on mine across the room.
Not broken. Not begging. Beautifully fucking furious. Relief hits so hard it almost drops me.
Reaper steps out behind her and presses a gun to her head, and everything in me goes still. He is younger than I remember from the one time I saw him. He has a lean build, with a Vulture patch on his cut, and a smile wide enough to look maniacal.
“Stop there,” he says.
I stop, and Harper’s eyes narrow at me. Not with fear but warning. She wants me thinking, even now.
Reaper strokes the barrel along her hair. “She really is something. Bled one of my boys with half a pair of scissors before we got her down.”
Pride moves through me. Shitty timing but still pride.
“That true, medic?” I ask.
Her mouth curves despite the blood. “He had soft hands.”
Reaper’s smile thins, and he presses the gun harder to her temple. “Touching. Here’s how this works. You drop your gun and knife. Then you kneel. Then I decide whether I let her watch you die before I carve her open.”
Harper’s face goes pale.
I drop the gun and the knife. Metal hits concrete, and Reaper’s smile widens. “Good.”
Harper’s eyes flash. “Steel, don’t you dare...”
Reaper hits her across the mouth with the gun and something inside me clicks into place.
Something old and final.
I take one step, and Reaper jerks the gun back to her head. “Ah-ah.”
I stop again. Blood runs from Harper’s lip. She spits it onto the floor and looks up at him. “You hit like a man who loses often.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
Reaper snarls, but that’s his mistake. His attention shifts from me to her. Just for half a second, but that’s all Saint needs. The lights die, and gunfire erupts outside. Reaper fires blind, and I move.
I cross the distance in the dark by memory, by sound, by the shape of Harper’s breathing. Reaper turns too late. I hit his wrist before he can aim again, and the gun goes off into the ceiling. Harper jerks but doesn’t scream.
I break Reaper’s arm, and he screams enough for both of them as the gun drops.
I drive him away from Harper, slamming him into a hanging chain hard enough to shake rust from the ceiling. He swings at me with his good hand. I let it land, but I barely feel it.
Then I hit him. Once to the ribs. Once to the jaw. Once to the throat. And he goes down choking.
The lights flicker back on, and Saint’s voice crackles in my ear. “Clear outside. Savage entering.”
Reaper crawls backward, blood pouring from his mouth. “You kill me, she sees what you are.”
I look at Harper. Her chest rises and falls fast. Her eyes are locked on me. This is it. The line. The one she begged me not to cross where I couldn’t come back.
Reaper laughs, wet and broken. “Do it, dog.”
I pick up my knife and Harper’s voice comes softly. “Steel.”
Not stop. Not please. Just my name. A hand on my chest without touching.
Raven’s voice comes through the earbud, quiet and sharp. “Choice.” One word, but it’s the right one.
I look at Reaper. “You’re breathing.” His smile flickers. “That’s more than you deserve.”
I crouch in front of him. He relaxes, just a fraction, thinking mercy has entered the room, but it hasn’t. I drive the knife through his thigh and pin him to the floor.
His scream tears through the slaughterhouse, and Harper flinches. I hate that, but this time she doesn’t look away.
I lean close. “You don’t die tonight because she asked me to come back with something left.” Reaper sobs, clawing at the concrete, and I twist the blade once. “But you’ll wish I’d loved her less.”
Savage steps in then, gun drawn, men spreading behind him. Raven is behind him with Saint, pale but armed, eyes immediately going to Harper. She moves before Savage can stop her, crossing to Harper’s side while I keep myself between Reaper and both women.
Savage takes in Harper, Reaper, me, and his eyes sharpen with understanding.
“Alive?” he asks.
“For now,” I say.
Savage nods to Saint. “Bind him. He answers for everything.”
I leave Reaper screaming and go to Harper, slowly. The way you approach something wounded that might still bite.
Raven is already behind her, fingers on the rope. “These knots are fucking tight.”
“I’ve got them,” I say.
Raven looks at Harper, not me. “You want him to cut you loose?”
Harper’s eyes move to mine. “Yes,” she says.
I cut the rope behind her with hands that don’t shake until the bindings fall away. Her wrists are raw. I stare at them. At what happened because she walked away and I let her go without enough protection.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The words are ugly in my mouth.
Harper rubs her wrists and looks up at me. “For what?”
“All of it.”
She laughs once, broken and sharp. “That’s a big apology.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t take me.”
“No. But my world did.” Her eyes soften, and that hurts worse than anger. I step back before I can touch her. “Savage has men outside. They’ll take you to County.”
Her brow furrows. “You’re sending me away?”
“I’m giving you what you asked for.”
“Peace?”
“Choice.”
The word lands between us, and she goes still. Raven steps away, giving us space. Not leaving. Just making room. I make myself keep talking because if I stop, I’ll beg, and she deserves more than a monster on his knees asking her to mistake devotion for safety.
“You were right to leave. You were right to hate what you saw. I can’t give you clean hands. I can’t give you a normal life. I can’t promise there won’t be blood.” Her throat works.
Behind us, Reaper groans as Saint cuffs him. Men move through the building, clearing shadows, but I see only her.
“I can promise you this,” I say. “I won’t cage you. I won’t choose for you. I won’t call protection love if it takes your life away.” Her eyes shine, and I force the next words out.
“You can leave, tonight, and I’ll make sure no one follows. No club. No Reaper. No me. You can walk out clean.”
Pain flashes across her face. “And if I don’t?”
My chest cracks open. “Then you ride with me. Not behind me because I say so. Not beside me because the club expects it. With me because you choose it.”
She stares at me, and for once, Harper Quinn has no quick answer. I think that’s when I feel it most. The terror of waiting to see whether the only woman who ever made me want to be more than violence can survive loving what violence made.
Harper stands slowly. I don’t help her because she doesn’t ask. She sways once, and I move on instinct, then stop myself. Her mouth trembles.
“You really would let me go,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
“It would hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“But you’d do it anyway.”
I swallow glass. “Yes.”
She looks down at Reaper’s blood on the floor. At my knife. At my hands. Then back to my face. “I don’t know if I can make peace with what you are,” she says.
“I know.”
“But when he took me, I didn’t pray for the police.” Her laugh breaks. “I prayed you’d come.” My lungs stop working. “And you did.”
“I’ll always come for you.”
She steps closer. One step, then another. “I hate the blood,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I hate the violence.”
“You should.”
“I hate that sometimes it saves me.” The words shake out of her. I stand still and let them.
She reaches for my hand, the bloodstained one, and my first instinct is to pull away, but she doesn’t let me. Her fingers curl around mine, careful of split knuckles and old scars.
“But I don’t hate you,” she says.
My control cracks enough that my head drops and my forehead touches hers. “Harper.”
“I’m not saying yes forever tonight,” she says. “I’m saying I’m not walking out clean if clean means walking out without you.”
My eyes close, and for one second, the slaughterhouse fades. The blood. The screams. The club. The war. Only her hand in mine remains.
I don’t move until she does. Harper rises onto her toes and kisses me.