Page 140 of Cobra
He nods once. “Good.”
Same answer Cain gave me before. Maybe they know better than to want me good. Good men hesitate. I don’t.
My phone buzzes.
Olivia: Are you okay?
My hand stills around the phone. For one second, the warehouse disappears.Her face replaces it. Her laugh in the clubhouse. Her hand on my chest. Her voice saying she loves all of me, even the parts that scare everyone else. I type back with one thumb.
Yeah.
Three dots appear.
Olivia: Come back to me.
My chest tightens. Not weakness. Fuel. I answer.
Always.
Then I slide the phone away and look at the burned records, the blood, the empty shelves where drugs and restraints used to be.
They touch what’s mine, they die.
But it’s bigger than that now.
They touch women like they’re inventory, they die. They build routes, we burn them. They move product, we take the road apart beneath them. No hesitation. No mercy. No loose ends.
I turn toward the door. “Let’s move,” I say.
Shadow falls in beside me.
Hammer follows.
Joker trails last, humming under his breath like the night has finally started to interest him.
Outside, the cold air hits my face. I breathe it in once. Then head for my bike.
This doesn’t end with one warehouse.
It ends when there’s nothing left of the system but ash.
I find it by accident. That’s what makes it feel important. Not staged. Not planned. Not something that was meant to happen.
Just there.
Cobra’s room is quiet in that heavy, grounded way it always is. Even during the day, even when the rest of the clubhouse hums with voices and movement, this space stays different. Still. Controlled. Like it holds him even when he’s not in it.
He left not long ago. Didn’t say much, just pressed a kiss to my temple, told me he’d be back, and walked out with that same contained intensity that never really leaves him anymore. Something’s been building the past day. I can feel it in the way his jaw sets, the way his eyes track everything twice as long as they used to. He didn’t explain it. He doesn’t always. And I’ve learned not to push when he doesn’t.
I move through his room slowly, not searching, just existing in it. That’s the difference now. I don’t feel like I’m in someone else’s space anymore. I don’t feel like I’m crossing a line every time I touch something or sit somewhere or breathe too loud. I belong here. That thought doesn’t scare me the way it probably should.
It settles.
His dresser drawer is half open when I pass it, a shirt caught on the edge like he pulled something out and didn’t bother fixing it. I reach out without thinking, pushing the drawer closed the rest of the way. It sticks.I frown slightly and tug it open again, smoothing the fabric inside so it doesn’t catch. That’s when I see it. A small, dark booklet tucked near the back.
I pause.
Not because I think I shouldn’t touch it. Because something about it feels personal. More than everything else in this room already does.
