Page 34 of Broken By Silence
Archer exhales hard through his nose, but his shoulders ease. Oscar signs, slower this time, and I translate. “We just don’t want things brushed off. Not with everything that’s happened to her.”
Crew nods quickly. “Yeah. I get that. I do. I’m not trying to pretend any of this didn’t happen. I just… I don’t know what to do when it all feels like it’s closing in. Before I would have got high, been atotal letdown, and have Roman clean up my mess… but I’m trying to be better.”
Archer watches Crew for a long beat, arms folded, eyes sharp like he’s weighing every word. Finally, he sighs, the sound low and rough. “At least you’re honest about it. More than I can say for Roman.”
Crew flinches but doesn’t argue. He just nods, staring at the floor. “Roman… he’s complicated. But I’m not him. I know we don’t exactly deserve your trust, not after…everything. I just don’t want to make things worse for her.” His eyes flick to me, quick, almost guilty. “For Lottie.”
Oscar’s hands move, slower this time. “Then prove it. Words don’t mean much right now.”
Archer translates what Oscar said, and Crew bites his lip, then nods again. “Fair. I’ll prove it.” He pauses, then tries for a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Might take me a while, though. I’m better at bad jokes and fucking things up than… whatever this is.”
Despite myself, I huff out a laugh. The sound surprises me. “You’re doing okay.”
Archer groans under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “God help me, if he actually becomes tolerable, I’m never going to hear the end of it.”
Crew grins, a little brighter now. “See? That was almost a compliment. We’re making progress already.”
Chapter 13
Archer
The morning after Roman’s discharge is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes my skin crawl because it’s too still, too easy to hear my own thoughts, and when it comes to Lottie, that’s dangerous. She moves around the kitchen with the familiar precision that’s become her armor, humming softly to herself as she rinses mugs and stacks dishes. I watch her from the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, every inch of me wired.
There were times when I longed to hear her voice. Wondering what she would sound like, I close my eyes, listening to the way her voice rasps as she sings a few lyrics before going back to humming her tune.
“Are you dancing tonight?” I ask, interrupting her. The words feel clumsy… heavy.
She glances at me over her shoulder, a slow, deliberate look that’s part warning, part amusement. “Yes.”
The shadows she carries into the club every time she steps on stage, the eyes that follow her like predators, the stakes no one outside this bubble understands.
I hate it. Hate it with every nerve ending in my body. But Iunderstand it too. It’s her power. Her control. Her survival wrapped into a routine, a performance, something she has complete control over.
I step closer, voice low, nearly a growl. “I’m coming with you.”
Her eyebrows lift, a flicker of that sly smile that always keeps me on edge. “Fine,” she replies, but her eyes gleam. “But no dragging me off the stage. I need this.”
I smirk, even though my gut tightens.
By the timeit’s her shift, the club is alive with the usual chaos. Bass that rattles my chest, the tang of alcohol and sweat in the air, neon lights painting everything in a red color. The kind of chaos I hate with every fiber of my being, but I follow because she’s here. Because I can’t be away from her, knowing there’s a threat out there.
Oscar’s here, working security, calm, but his eyes barely leave the door she’s getting changed behind. He throws me a quick look. “I’ve got her from the floor side. You don’t need to intervene unless she’s in real danger.”
I nod once, though the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease, and then she steps onto the stage.
Even in this hellhole of flashing lights and leering eyes, she’s magnetic. She’s not just moving; she’s commanding. Every step, every flick of her hair, every curve she throws into a turn—it’s deliberate.
Calculated. Beautiful. Dangerous.
I can feel my jaw tightening, my chest constricting, because this is hers, but it’s also a room filled with men who don’t belong anywhere near her.
I hate them. I hate every man whose eyes linger too long, every flicker of cash thrown her way like she’s a commodity. But I’m caught.
Helpless. Enthralled. Obsessed.
She’s fire, and I can’t stop staring.
Her gaze doesn’t meet mine. She’s performing for the audience, but I know her. I’ve seen the control she keeps behind those eyes.The little quirk of her jaw when she’s tired, the subtle tightening of her hips that tells me she’s exhausted and still standing. She’s mine, even if they think they own a moment of her.
