Page 104 of Carrick
A worn hoodie, soft from a hundred washes, that had to have been Rayden’s. Her charger. A toothbrush. A battered leather journal with curled corners, the kind filled with hope before the world broke it open. She paused over a photo tucked inside—one I couldn’t see, but felt the weight of. Her fingers lingered before slipping it between the pages and closing the cover like a wound.
She stared at the items like blinking might make them vanish, then tucked each one into the bag like a secret—or a prayer. Her hands were shaking so badly she pressed them flat to the wall just to stay upright.
But still, she didn’t cry. And somehow, that undid me more than if she had. Because the worst kind of grief doesn’t scream. It doesn’t beg to be witnessed. It packs itself into a backpack, folds into silence, and pretends it knows how to keep breathing.
When she turned, the bag slung over her shoulder, she didn’t look at me. Her face was blank, unreadable—except for her eyes, which burned with that fragile, feral mix of fury and grief, like she was stitched together with wire and sheer will. Then her arm dropped. Just that. A small, ordinary motion—but it was enough. Enough to unravel her posture. Enough to let the weight in.
She swayed, and I caught her before she hit the ground, arms wrapping around her like maybe I could hold the grief, too. She didn’t sob. Didn’t collapse. Just sagged into me like someone who’d forgotten how to exhale. I didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say. No comfort that could touch the fact that everything she loved had just disappeared into the night.
We weren’t safe. We weren’t okay. But in that shattered silence, in that breathless moment between what had broken and what hadn’t yet—at least we weren’t alone.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I shifted just enough to pull it free and glanced at the screen.
Niko.One text.
What the actual fuck are you doing?
21
Carrick
The gravel crunchedbeneath the tires as I rolled the bike to a stop at the edge of the compound. The sound was louder than it should’ve been in the dark. Bellamy didn’t move at first. She stayed behind me, arms still wrapped around my waist, her cheek pressed between my shoulder blades like she couldn’t tell if it was over yet.
I turned the key, and the engine cut off. Silence rushed in like a flood, dense and immediate. She inhaled, shallow and tight. “We’re home,” I said, but the words didn’t land right. Not after what we’d just seen. Not after what we gave away. Home didn’t feel like the word anymore.
I helped her off the bike. She landed harder than usual, knees unsteady. She didn’t ask for help, but her fingers brushed mine anyway, barely there, like she needed the contact more than she wanted to admit. The porch light ahead buzzed and flickered, dim and unreliable. I reached the top step first and paused, my hand hovering over the door. Behind me, Bellamy stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, weight shifting like she was bracing for the blow.
So was I.
Before I could turn the knob, the door swung open. Sullivan filled the frame—shirt wrinkled, mug in hand, hair wild from sleep—but his eyes were alert, wide awake in a way that said he knew exactly what this meant. “Well,” he drawled, voice dry, “Lucy, you got some ’splainin to do.”
Bellamy flinched. I didn’t. “Not now,” I muttered, brushing past him.
Sully just chuckled, already turning toward the kitchen like this was just another late-night rerun and we were the punchline. “I’ll get the others,” he called over his shoulder. “No sense in anyone missing the show.”
The door creaked shut behind Bellamy as she stepped in. Her movements were quieter now, hesitant, her presence folding in on itself as if she wasn’t sure she still belonged here. The house felt colder than it had before. Too quiet. Too still.
Wrong.
She lingered just inside the door, fingers curling into the hem of her jacket like she hadn’t decided whether to run or stand her ground. Her eyes swept the room—familiar, whole, untouched by what we’d just left behind. And yet, this place didn’t feel like a sanctuary. It felt like a waiting room for judgment.
I moved ahead, shrugging off my coat and tossing it over the back of the armchair. My shoulders ached, chest tight, the tension already buzzing in the walls like static. The confrontation hadn’t started yet, but it was coming.
Bellamy didn’t move from the entryway.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice low.
She nodded once.
But it wasn’t real. Not even close.
Above us, a door creaked open, followed by footsteps. Someone muttered—Jax, probably. Then a sharper voice cut in. Maddy. Awake and already pissed. Deacon’s calming tonefollowed, a soft counterpoint, but it didn’t take the edge out of the air. The others were coming.
Bellamy drew a breath that didn’t seem to go anywhere.
“You can still go upstairs,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “You don’t have to stay for this.”
She turned toward me slowly—and for the first time since we left the apartment, I saw anger in her eyes. Not panic. Not fear. Fire.
