Page 92 of Carrick
Then Carrick moved. He came to stand in front of me—not close enough to crowd, but enough that I couldn’t ignore him. His voice was calm. “We’re not asking you not to grieve.”
My chin trembled.
“We’re asking you tolet us grieve with you. Not around you. Not through you.Withyou.”
I stared at him, and suddenly, all that fury—all that fire—was ash. My body gave out before my mind caught up, and I sank to the floor, breath shuddering. Carrick followed without a word. Then Sully. Deacon. Jax came last, squeezing my shoulder in quiet solidarity as he dropped beside me.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t fix anything. But for the first time in days, we were all on the same floor. And I wasn’t alone. These men—this team—sat in my grief with me. Not out of obligation. Not because they owed Rayden anything. None of them had ever met him. They had no reason to care beyond the fact that he was mine. And somehow, that was enough. They claimed my loss as theirs, like Rayden had been their brother, too.
The floor was cool beneath me as I curled my legs under and hunched forward, arms locked around my middle. I couldn’t meet their eyes—still too shaken, still stitching myself back together from the inside out. But the quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. It didn’t brace for an explosion or wait for someone to break. It was open. Shared.
Carrick sat closest. Not touching. Not crowding. Just near. Knees drawn up, one arm resting across them, his breath steady and paced with mine. He didn’t offer words or apologies, didn’t reach for some tidy answer. He just breathed with me. It was infuriating. And exactly what I needed.
A few feet away, Sully leaned back against the couch, head tipped, eyes closed, hands clasped like he’d just run a marathon. Deacon crouched beside him, elbows on knees, jaw slowly unclenching. Jax sat cross-legged, sleeves over his hands, gaze pinned to the floor with that unreadable expression he wore like armor. Even Niko had moved. He didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. But he stood closer now—arms crossed, face unreadable. Watching. Waiting. And that meant something, too.
I finally spoke. Quiet. Hoarse. “I’m sorry.”
Carrick didn’t flinch. “For what?”
“For... all of it. The yelling. The accusations. The part where I screamed in your face and said fuck you in front of your friends.”
“Technically, coworkers,” Sully murmured without opening his eyes.
“Technically, family,” Deacon said.
Carrick let out a low breath. “You don’t have to apologize for falling apart.”
“I do when I throw it like a grenade.”
Jax’s voice broke the quiet. “Some people explode. Some people implode. Statistically, women are more likely to externalize grief in high-stress environments, especially whenthey feel helpless. So... your reaction was actually pretty textbook.”
I looked over at him. “Are you seriously citing grief psychology right now?”
He shrugged. “It’s better than the alternative.”
That startled a tiny, wounded laugh out of me. Just a breath.
“You okay?” I asked him.
Jax blinked at me, still obviously struggling with his own feelings of inadequacy and impotence. “No. Not really.”
Me neither, I wanted to say.
But I didn’t need to.
Because we were all in the wreckage now.
“I shouldn’t have said you don’t care,” I murmured. “Any of you. I was angry. That’s not an excuse, but... I see you now.”
Jax nodded once. That was all.
Deacon shifted forward. “I meant what I said. We do want to find him. And not just because it’ll help the investigation. Because he’s your brother. You’re dangerously close to becoming family, which means your family is our family, too. And we care about family.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I closed my eyes, and a fresh wave of tears slipped free, quiet this time. No sobbing. Just soft grief.
“I don’t want to give up hope,” I said. “But I don’t want false hope either. I need toknowwhat’s being done.”
Carrick’s voice was calm. “Then we’ll show you.”
