Page 181 of Carrick
But the worst hadn’t come yet.
Because ahead of us—waiting in the glow of a house that didn’t know it was about to break—we were carrying a different kind of devastation. And this time, we weren’t leaving it behind. We were bringing it home.
34
Carrick
Light poured from every window,the whole house glowing like someone inside couldn’t bear the dark. Warm yellow spilled into the night, soft and stubborn, like a body refusing to let go even after the heartbeat had stopped.
It should’ve felt like safety—like home. But it didn’t.
The air buzzed with tension, every wall seeming to brace itself, as if the house already knew what was coming.
Hope hadn’t vanished, not completely. But it was cowering in the corner, trembling, already flinching from the blow it knew was coming.
I killed the engine at the top of the drive, and let the silence bleed in. Thick. Viscous. The kind of silence that dripped down the throat and settled behind the ribs. Heavy in the lungs. Impossible to breathe around.
Quinn didn’t move beside me. His shoulder was soaked through, the bandage clinging dark and wet to his jacket. His face looked like paper—thin, drawn, the blood still smeared at his hairline making him look more ghost than man.
He hadn’t spoken since we crossed back into familiar territory. Not since the ambush. Not since Rayden’s name had become past tense.
There was nothing left to say that didn’t taste like failure. I stared at the house.
Maybe I could sit here in the quiet, and rewind the night—watch the car un-explode, the SUV vanish, the RPG trace that fateful line back to its starting point. Watch Rayden walk backward into the shadows, scared, but alive.
But time doesn’t do favors for people like me. There is no rewind. No forgiveness. No edit button on war. There’s only after.
And after looked like this—blood in my teeth, the reek of smoke embedded in my clothes, and a half-melted keychain in my pocket with her name still legible through the scorch marks.
A piece of him. Made for her. Now mine to carry.
“I should be the one to say it,” Quinn said beside me, his voice like gravel. No force. No edge. Just something broken trying to take on shape again.
I shook my head once, slow and final. “You’ll have to explain everything, eventually. But not tonight.”
There was no heat behind it. Just exhaustion, coiled tight and hollow in the space where purpose used to live. Whatever armor I’d been holding together was cracked now, paper-thin and bleeding at the seams.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t offer comfort. We both knew neither of us could carry it right now. He just opened the door with a low grunt of pain and stepped out into the dark.
I followed.
The porch light flickered once, like it had caught a glimpse of what we’d become and didn’t want to bear witness. The boards creaked beneath our boots, louder than they should’ve been. Sharp. Startling. The front door opened before we reached it. Sully stood there like he’d been waiting—hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, fingers curled loosely around a glass ofsomething dark. His eyes flicked first to Quinn’s shoulder, then to the blood, then to me.
And he knew.
Whatever words we hadn’t spoken seemed already carved into the bruises on our faces, etched in the rigid set of Quinn’s jaw, in the way my eyes burned from not blinking for twenty straight minutes. The silence didn’t need filling—our bodies had already said enough.
Sully didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. He just stepped aside slowly, like widening the door might somehow soften the blow we were about to bring down on this house.
But nothing could soften what came next. Because grief wasn’t knocking anymore. It was already inside.
Deacon stood stiffly by the fireplace, arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear it grind from across the room. The moment he saw Quinn, however, his entire demeanor changed. He sprang into action, running to the kitchen to grab a first aid kit, then helping Quinn sit while he began inspecting his wounds.
Of course, he had immediately assessed that I was in better shape, and could wait.
Maddy stood at the island, unmoving, both hands curled around a mug of tea that had long gone cold. She wasn’t drinking it. Wasn’t even pretending to. She just held it like it was the last thing tethering her to gravity—like the warmth might return if she held still long enough. Her eyes stayed locked on the floor, but her knuckles were white, the porcelain rattling every time her grip trembled.
Beside her, Jax paced the far wall in a slow, methodical rhythm, steps measured like he was trying to control something internal by ordering the space around him. But the second he caught sight of Quinn’s shoulder, the stained bandage, the bloodstreaked down his jacket, and the sag of his spine—he stopped. Mid-step. Like someone had grabbed his throat.
