Page 30 of Rook
Stone didn’t flinch. “You care.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He popped the cap off the beer.
“It does.”
Rook turned away, pacing, taking a swing from the cool beer in his hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have stepped in. I shouldn’t…”
“You shouldn’t lie to yourself,” Stone said quietly.
Rook froze.
Stone stepped closer, voice steady. “You’ve been holding this in for seven years. You think it’s not gonna blow up in your face?”
Noah swallowed hard. “I don’t want to feel this.”
“Too late,” Grim muttered.
Havoc nodded. “Way too late.”
Ledger added, “Irreversibly late.”
Stone ignored them. “Go cool off.”
Rook didn’t argue.
Leaving his full beer on the top of the bar, he headed down the hallway, boots heavy against the floor, and pushed into his room. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing hard.
Silence wrapped around him.
His room was simple: bed, dresser, a few photos, his cut hanging on the back of a chair. The faint hum of the clubhouse filtered through the walls, mixed with the distant rumble of bikes outside and the metallic tang of oil clinging to his skin from the ride.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, breath coming hard and uneven.
He dragged both hands over his face, trying to steady his breathing, but something on the nightstand caught his eye.
A thin strip of worn leather.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then his chest tightened, breath stalling as he reached for it.
The bracelet was small, simple — dark brown leather braided loosely, the ends tied in a knot that had frayed over the years. Avery had made it when they were kids, sitting cross-legged on the bakery floor, tongue poking out in concentration as she tried to get the braid even.
She’d handed it to him with a shy little smile.
“So you don’t forget me when you’re off doing boy things.”
He’d laughed. He’d promised he wouldn’t. He’d slipped it on and never took it off.
Not until the night she left.
He’d taken it off then, not to get rid of it, but because wearing it hurt too damn much. He’d shoved it in a drawer, told himself he’d throw it away.
He never did.
Now, holding it again, the years collapsed in on him. The leather was soft from age, warm from his hand, familiar in a way that made something deep in his chest twist hard.
He closed his eyes, jaw locking.
