Page 2 of Mortify

The cashier's smile falters slightly, sensing the tension.

He focuses on scanning items faster, clearly wanting us gone.

I stare at the credit card machine, avoiding everyone's eyes, wishing I could disappear.

Dylan's phone buzzes as we're loading bags.

He checks it, frowning. "My mom wants me to stop by. After we drop this shit off."

Relief floods through me so intense I almost sag against the cart.

A few hours without him hovering, criticizing, controlling. "That's fine. I'll help get dinner started while you're gone."

"You'll wait for me," he corrects, loading the last bag with unnecessary force. "Don't go getting too comfortable with those criminals. I'll be back."

The drive to the clubhouse is tense.

Dylan drums his fingers on the steering wheel, that nervous energy that usually means he's planning something.

I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets pass, trying to calm the anxiety building in my chest.

November trees stand bare against the gray sky, looking as stripped and exposed as I feel.

"Remember," he says as we pull up to the gate, "keep your ears open. These assholes are struggling with the lockdown. Businesses closed, medical bills piling up. Might be willing to make deals they normally wouldn't."

"I'm not spying on my family."

His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist hard enough to make me gasp.

Right over last week's bruises, the ones that haven't faded to yellow yet.

I can feel my pulse racing under his fingers, trapped like a butterfly he's slowly crushing.

"Your family?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The same family that got your brother's leg blown off? Same ones who let Flora die? Yeah, great fucking family."

"That wasn't?—"

"Shut up." He releases my wrist as one of the prospects, Bodul, approaches to open the gate.

Dylan's face transforms instantly, that fake charm sliding into place like a mask. "Happy Thanksgiving, man! Thanks for letting us through!"

Bodul nods, letting us through without saying a word.

The transformation always amazes me—how quickly Dylan can switch from cruel to charming, fooling everyone.

It's like watching two different people inhabit the same body.

We park and start unloading the groceries.

The November air is cold, cutting through my jacket, but the warmth coming from the clubhouse promises comfort I desperately need.

Through the windows, I can see women already working in the kitchen, kids running around, normalcy in the chaos.

Smoke rises from the chimney, carrying the smell of wood fire and roasting turkey.

"Quite the setup they've got," Dylan observes, scanning the reinforced fencing, the security cameras, the prospects on guard duty. "Like a fucking compound. What are they so scared of?"

"They're protecting their families," I say, hefting another bag.

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