Page 139 of Carrick
From the far edge of the frame, a figure emerged from the alley.
Rayden.
No hood. No rush. Just his hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed slightly against the rain, like he didn’t give a damn who saw him. Like it was routine. Like the night, the SUV, andthe stakes didn’t touch him. Every step he took said one thing: he belonged there.
The SUV slowed. A beat later, the passenger door opened.
Oleg Karsin stepped out.
Taller than I’d expected. Broader, too. Built like someone who didn’t just survive violence—he orchestrated it. A jagged scar split his cheek like a signature. His gloves were pristine. His suit, immaculate. Every line of his body radiated power. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t carry a visible weapon.
Rayden looked up through the rain. He said something—short, clipped, maybe even casual. The body language was easy. Familiar.
Then, without hesitation, he climbed into the car. The door shut behind him with eerie finality. The SUV pulled away seconds later, tires slicing through the wet pavement like it was nothing.
That was it.
No sound. No hesitation. No visible tension. Just a quiet transaction caught on camera—one we didn’t fully understand, but already knew would cost something.
Maybe everything. But even without context, it was enough.
More than enough.
“It’s a problem,” Niko said flatly, eyes still on the screen.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t look at me when he asked, “You think she’ll see it that way?”
I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.
She’d begged Rayden to leave. Begged me to keep him breathing. She hadn’t just asked for safety—she’d pleaded with the weight of someone who’d already lost too much. And now? Now she might not have a choice.
I pushed away from the desk, heart pounding like a warning drum. The footage still looped behind me as I walked out.
She was in the kitchen, tucked into the far corner by the window, a steaming mug gripped tight between her hands like it was the last warmth she had. Shoulders hunched. Hair damp from a shower she probably didn’t remember. Sleeves pushed up. Fingertips red from holding the ceramic too hard.
She’d slept—longer than I expected—but peace didn’t come with rest. Not for her.
Maddy stood at the island, slicing apples with lazy precision, talking about nothing in particular—weather, a dream, something about the horses needing feed. Bellamy wasn’t listening. Her eyes were locked on the window, unfocused, brows drawn tight in that way I recognized too well.
She was waiting for bad news.
When I stepped into the room, she straightened before she saw me. Her spine snapped to attention, shoulders squared, breath hitched—she always felt me before she saw me.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.
Maddy noticed the shift instantly. Her knife paused mid-slice. She glanced between us, eyes narrowing with quiet understanding.
“You want me to?—?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Thanks.”
She didn’t press. Just touched Bellamy’s arm, smoothed a piece of hair behind her ear with a mother’s gentleness, and left without a word.
Bellamy didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
She just kept staring out the window, like if she focused hard enough, she could hold the world in place.
