Page 11 of Rook
Rook glared at all of them. “I don’t care that she’s back.”
The room erupted.
Grim laughed so hard he slapped the table. Havoc nearly fell off the pool table. Even Ledger’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
Fish didn’t laugh.
He just watched Rook with that quiet, unblinking focus that made men straighten their spines. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, roughened by old injury, but steady.
“Care’s not the problem,” Fish said. “It’s what it does to you.”
The room stilled. Fish’s gaze hit harder than the teasing. The man didn’t waste words, and when he looked at you, it felt like he saw the parts you tried to bury.
Stone moved closer, voice low and steady. “Rook,” he said. “You’ve been carrying that girl likea ghost for seven years. Don’t stand here and tell me you don’t care.”
Rook looked away, throat tight.
He hated how easily they saw through him. He hated how exposed he felt. He hated that Avery Brooks could still tear him open without even trying.
“She’s staying at the apartment above the bakery,” Rook muttered.
Grim’s smirk faded. “Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Stone’s expression darkened. “That place isn’t secure.”
“I know.”
“You gonna fix that?”
Rook didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
Havoc grinned. “Of course he is. Our boy’s already halfway in love again.”
Rook shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Drop it.”
Havoc held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just saying…”
“Drop it,” Rook repeated, voice low, dangerous.
The room quieted.
Fish leaned back in his chair, gloves creaking softly. “Storm’s not done,” he said. “Inside or out.”
Stone stepped forward and clapped a hand on Rook’s shoulder. “We’ve got your back. Whatever this brings.”
Rook swallowed hard.
The club wasn’t just a club. They were his family. His anchor. His salvation.
And they knew—every damn one of them—that Avery Brooks was the one thing that could break him all over again.
Havoc nudged Grim. “Told you he’d lose his shit when she came back.”
Grim grinned. “Yeah, but I didn’t think it’d be this fun.”
Rook shook his head and headed for the bar, needing distance, needing air, needing anything that wasn’t the memory of Avery’s eyes on him.
