Page 162 of Carrick
A chill ran through me, but I didn’t say anything. Carrick didn’t let go of my hand.
Sully tapped the burner phone with one finger. “You think he’ll actually follow through?”
I looked up. “He will.”
Deacon’s voice was calm, measured. “Because he promised you?”
“No.” I exhaled. “Because he believes I still see the version of him that hasn’t given up yet.”
That silenced everyone again. But it didn’t feel heavy this time. It felt… honest.
Jax glanced up from his tablet. “Then we use it. Not to manipulate him. But to give him purpose. You don’t survive in their world unless you’re useful.”
Quinn nodded. “I’ll set up a secure relay. Something that updates live to a scrubbed location. Minimal trace, maximum coverage. We’ll train him on what to report, when to move, and how to get out if it goes sideways.”
“And if he changes his mind?” Sully asked.
Everyone went still again.
Carrick’s voice was quiet. “Then we’ll deal with that when it comes.”
No one argued. Because they all knew. This wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was family. And when family fell into the fire, you either burned with them—or you built a bridge.
I looked around the room at the people who’d carried me farther than I ever thought I’d make it. At Carrick, whose hand still covered mine. At Quinn, who was already building a plan from the rubble. At Jax, whose mind never stopped moving, even when his heart broke quietly in the background. At Sully and Deacon and Maddy, each of them forged in different fires but still standing here, choosing to stay.
And I realized I wasn’t alone in this. Not anymore.
Hours later,the house settled into that rare kind of quiet—not brittle with waiting like before, but softened at the edges, like the earth itself had finally gone still. The kind of hush that follows after tremors fade, when breath comes slower, and you’re not sure if the next quake will come—but for now, the ground holds. The strategy meetings had ended. The planning was done. What remained was silence, thick and steady, the kind that seeped into walls and waited with you.
I stood in the hallway, fingers brushing the edge of Carrick’s doorframe, my body bone-tired and soul-hollow. The adrenaline had bled out hours ago, leaving behind a deeper kind of ache—not just physical, not only grief. It was the exhaustion that came from giving everything and still feeling like you hadn’t given enough.
Behind me, Carrick’s steps approached—quiet but unmistakable. He didn’t speak. Just slid his arms around my waist and drew me gently back into the shape of him like he already knew what I needed. I leaned into him without resistance, bone to muscle, breath to breath.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I said quietly, not sure if I meant it for him or for the stillness itself.
“Me neither,” Carrick replied, voice steady and low. “But I know you’re not facing it alone.”
I closed my eyes and let that promise wrap around me, let it fill the hollow places still trembling beneath my skin. “I’m tired,” I admitted, softer now.
Carrick pressed a kiss to my temple—gentle, certain, without urgency. “Then come to bed.” No question. No implication. Justthe offer of peace. Of sleep. Of shelter. The kind of safety that didn’t need to be explained.
I followed him into the bedroom, the air quiet, the light low. The bed was still unmade, sheets cool and familiar. He got in first, lifting the blanket without fanfare. I climbed in beside him, curling close, head resting against his chest, one hand fisting in the hem of his shirt like it might hold me steady.
He didn’t fill the silence with words. He didn’t need to. His arm slipped around me, his hand warm and slow on my back, tracing quiet circles like a tether. His breathing deepened, calm and rhythmic, and I matched mine to his without even thinking.
And in that hush, something shifted. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But with a quiet kind of clarity that took root in the space between his heartbeat and mine—a truth simple and solid. Whatever storm still waited outside, we weren’t walking into it alone. Not anymore.
And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.
30
Carrick
Movie night was supposedto be low-key. But then again, nothing was ever low-key with this crew. Someone always had to make it a whole production—Sully and his damn popcorn bar, Maddy reorganizing the couch cushions like she was staging a photoshoot, Jax running the whole entertainment system through six different diagnostics just to “optimize resolution,” and Niko glaring at all of us like our volume levels were a personal betrayal.
Someone had already queued up an early 2000s action-comedy—packed with enough explosions to hold Niko’s attention and just enough shirtless nonsense to keep Maddy smirking. I wasn’t really paying attention. Because Bellamy was curled next to me on the couch, one leg draped over mine like it was an afterthought. It wasn’t. That leg had been there since the lights dimmed, warm and bare under the hem of her borrowed pajama shorts, and I hadn’t focused on a single damn scene since.
The others had taken their usual places. Sully sat on the floor with three pillows and a blanket fort, like a toddler with a whiskey habit. Jax was in the armchair, legs crossed, sipping tea and side-eyeing the plot holes. Maddy had claimed the end ofthe sectional, her socked feet tucked under Nikolai, who looked like he’d rather be interrogating a cartel enforcer than watching Vin Diesel attempt comedic timing. Deacon stood against the far wall, arms crossed like he was guarding the projector.
