Page 12 of Rook
But Ledger’s voice followed him.
“She’s going to change everything,” he said quietly.
Rook didn’t turn around.
“She already did,” he said.
And the room went still. Because they all knew it was true. He didn’t wait for their reactions. He just kept moving.
The clubhouse noise faded behind him the second he shut his bedroom door.
The laughter. The teasing. The clatter of pool balls. The low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards.
All of it muffled into a distant hum, like the world was happening somewhere he didn’t belong.
Rook leaned back against the door, eyes closed, breath tight in his chest. His room was dark except for the thin strip of hallway light bleeding under the door. The air smelled like leather, gun oil, and the faint trace of smoke that clung to everything he owned.
He didn’t turn on the light.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t trust himself to.
His brothers had seen enough tonight. The jokes. The smirks. The knowing looks. They’d read him too easily, peeled him open without even trying. He’d held the line, kept his face blank, his voice steady, his answers short.
But now, alone, he felt the crack in his armor widening.
He was soaked. Rain dripped from his hair, his clothes clung to his skin, and his boots left wet prints across the floor. The weight of the night pressed against him like a hand on his chest.
He crossed the room and pushed into the small bathroom attached to his quarters. The overhead bulb flickered once before settling into a low, steady glow.
Rook braced both hands on the edge of the sink, water dripping from his sleeves, pooling on the tile. His reflection stared back at him, wet hair plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched, eyes too sharp, too tired, too full.
He looked like a man split down the middle.
He dragged in a breath that didn’t reach his lungs.
Slowly, he shrugged out of his cut. The leather was heavy with rain, darker than usual, the patches slick. He held it for a moment, just held it, feeling the weight of everything stitched into it.
VP. ROOK.
He’d bled for that title. Earned it. Built a life around it.
And tonight, when Avery had slipped it from her shoulders and handed it back, it had felt like someone reached inside his chest and twisted.
He set the cut gently on the counter, like it was something fragile.
Then he started peeling himself out of the rest, boots thudding to the floor, socks soaked through, shirt clinging to him like a second skin.
He turned the shower on, hot water blasting against the tile. Steam filled the room fast, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of his reflection until he couldn’t see himself at all.
Maybe that was better.
He stepped under the spray, the heat hitting him so hard his shoulders tensed on instinct. Water ran down his face, over his shoulders, across the scars on his ribs. He pressed his palms to the wall, head bowed, letting the water drown out the world.
But it didn’t drown out his thoughts.
His mind went straight back to the bakery.
