Page 25 of Tiny's Testament
“Not from me.” That breaks something between us. The air feels thick, heavy, and charged.
I swallow. “It’s not your fault, you know. Whatever happened out there.”
He finally looks up. “Everything’s my fault, Syv.”
“No,” I whisper shaking my head. “Not this time.”
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to his brown, steady eyes full of storms. His breath brushes my cheek when he leans in closer. I think he’s going to kiss me, and the terrifying part is that I want him to.
But he steps back instead, grabbing the towel, drying his hands like nothing happened. “Thanks,” he says roughly. “You should get some rest.”
I nod, though rest feels impossible. “You too.”
He gives a half laugh. “Not in this lifetime.”
He leaves first, boots heavy against the floorboards, disappearing down the hall. The door to his room shuts with a low thud.
I stand there alone for a long time, the sound of dripping water the only proof the world’s still moving.
Back in my room, Peanut curls beside my pillow. I grab my paints and an old scrap of canvas. My hands still shake, but the brush steadies them. I start with the black of her fur, his cut, the way he always holds her like she’s the last soft thing in the world.
By the time I’m done, the sun’s gone, and the shadows have swallowed the room. I leave the painting outside his door before I can change my mind.
A silent thank-you. A promise. A warning. If he keeps breaking himself to protect me, one day I’ll stop him, or break with him.
By morning, the painting is gone. No note. No words. But later, when I pass Tiny’s room, the door’s cracked open just enough for me to see it leaning against his dresser, dry and safe. That’s answer enough.
For a while, the clubhouse feels calm again. The kind of fragile quiet that sits just before the storm. Peanut curls up on the windowsill, sun-soaked and lazy. Nadia’s playing soft music, dancing with her son on her hip, her belly growing with their second child. It should feel normal, but it doesn’t.
When Red bursts into the main room midafternoon, calm shatters like glass.
“Los Demons weren’t done,” he says, voice hoarse. “They waited for the second crew on the way back from the docks.”
The words stop everything. Trigger’s comm cuts out halfway through his report, static and blood in his tone. Torch’s bike came in smoking. Dagger’s hands are still shaking when he walks through the door.
“Jesus Christ,” Nadia whispers. “They were supposed to be in and out.”
My chest locks tight. The room spins slowly. “Is everyone okay?”
Nadia looks at me, eyes wide, mouth working, but no sound coming out. That’s all the answer I need.
I don’t remember sitting down. I just remember the smell of gasoline, smoke, and blood. Same as before. Same as when Lattimer let me go. My stomach turns over, bile clawing up my throat. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m sick.
The floor tiles are cool against my cheek when I sink down, shaking. I can’t breathe right. Can’t stop seeing Tiny’s face under that same smoke, broken and bloodied.
He’s fine, I tell myself. He’s fine. He has to be.
The knock on the door comes too soft to hear at first. Then louder. “Syvannah?”
Pearl. Of course.
“Go away.”
The door creaks open anyway. She slips inside, perfume so thick it chokes. She crouches down, voice syrup-sweet. “Rough morning?”
“Don’t,” I warn, but my voice cracks.
Pearl smiles, the kind that never reaches her eyes. “I know that look. I’ve had that look. You want it to stop, just for a little while.”
