Harper slid into the back seat of the SUV, folding herself into the corner like she could make herself smaller. Her knees came up tight, one arm wrapped around them, the other pinching hard at the bridge of her nose. Blood streamed hot through her fingers as she twisted in the seat, angling her knees beneath her hand so it marked her pants instead of the upholstery. Another mess would only earn her worse.
Brock's door yanked open and slammed in the same motion, the whole chassis shuddering with the force of it. His movements came clipped, violent in their precision—key jammed, ignition coughing the engine awake, his hands locking at ten and two on the wheel.
The passenger door thudded closed a beat later. Nolan slid in, the seat groaning under his weight. He didn't look back, but Harper caught the tight set of his jaw in the glass, the stiff line of his shoulders tipped forward, one hand braced hard against the dash.
The SUV filled with the scent of blood and wet metal as Brock dropped it into gear. Tires hissed over gravel, the fence rolled open and rattled on its track, and the yard fell away into rain.
Nolan reached down without a word, rummaging under his seat into the duffel at his feet. The zipper rasped hard, his hand moving faster and rougher than she was used to seeing from him in the cafeteria or on the mats. His arm came back a moment later, a rag dangling from his fist, offered blind over the seat, knuckles pale from how tight he held it.
"Seatbelt," he muttered, voice low, rough at the edges.
Harper shifted stiffly, dragging her knees down from the corner to snap the buckle home. Then she snatched the cloth and pressed it hard under her nose. The fabric turned warm almost instantly, heavy with iron. She leaned forward, elbows braced to her thighs, breath rasping around the copper sting as the stain spread through her grip.
Nolan checked the mirrors twice like the first pass hadn't landed, thumb swiping condensation off the side window a little harder than necessary, leaving a clean streak through the fogged glass. His voice came quiet, meant only for her. "Keep pressure. Forward, not back. Breathe through your mouth." The words stayed even; the tight pull in his jaw didn't.
The rag grew heavier in her hand, metallic taste bleeding down the back of her throat, her split lip finding teeth with every bump in the road. She caught Nolan's look when it came again in the mirror—steady, but his jaw knotted once before he forced it still, fingers tightening on the edge of the dash and then easing off like he'd remembered himself. Then his gaze slipped away, leaving her focus on the hard line of Brock's shoulders as the city pulled them in. Rain stitched soft across the roof, and the silence in the cab carried enough edge by itself.
They took the river road without a word, sliding under overpasses and along stretches of chainlink where the water smelled metallic in the rain. Wipers carved the distance into even strokes, lane markers slipping past in pale bands while the defroster whispered until the fog bled off the glass.
Harper kept the tilt forward, swapping corners of the rag as it soaked through, mouth open to breathe around the throb in her lip. Nolan worked the mirrors and angles, shoulders shifting with the rhythm she'd learned to recognize—signal, check, settle—once cracking his window an inch to thin the smell of iron. Brock's grip stayed rigid on the wheel, every lane change smooth, every turn measured, his stare locked forward; the rearview caught headlights and wet pavement, never his eyes.
The city unspooled in sodium glow and brake light and wet asphalt. A dredge barge moved dark on the river. A patrol car ghosted past in the opposite lane and kept going. When the viaduct bent, he took the turn under it and let the ramp carry them down to the service road, past a row of blanked-out warehouses and a battered billboard for a fireworks outlet that hadn't existed in years.
The compound gate rose out of the rain, guard shack haloed in dull orange. The man inside leaned out, took one look at the SUV, and hit the switch. Nolan lifted his badge more out of habit than need as the barrier arm jerked up and the fence rolled aside. The cab stayed hushed as they slid through, rain hissing off the hood like a secret being kept.
The ramp dropped them into the garage's concrete throat—fluorescents humming, water ticking off the undercarriage, painted lines slick as skin—and Brock nosed into their bay with the same controlled hands he'd held the whole drive.
The SUV rolled to a stop, engine idling low before he cut it with a twist that snapped the quiet tighter. His door flew open and he stepped out, slamming it hard enough that the echo chased itself down the row. Harper jumped in her seat, the jolt sending a fresh stab of pain through her nose and lip.
By the time the chassis stopped shivering, Brock was already striding into the corridor without a glance back, boots fading fast under the hum of the fluorescents until even that was gone.
Harper stayed curled in the back, rag pressed to her face, breath coming shallow as the ache throbbed steady in her nose and lip. Blood still seeped, but slower now, thick enough that the cloth only mottled instead of soaking through. She leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, staring at the floor mat until the smear of red there blurred, willing the pulse under her fingers to settle.
The passenger door opened, the cab lifting slightly as Nolan climbed out. His door closed with a muted thud instead of a slam. For a few seconds there was only the tick of cooling metal and the hiss of rain.
Then the back handle clicked.
The door swung wide and cool air knifed through the warm, copper-thick scent in the SUV. Harper flinched hard, shoulders bunching, body braced tight for another hand in her collar, another hit, another man angry with her for disobeying.
It didn't come.
Nolan just stood there, filling the doorway. He didn't say anything, didn't crowd her, only waited until she forced herself to look up. His hand came down then, palm out—steady, offered, not grabbing. She hesitated, everything in her still wired for impact, then let her fingers uncurl enough to take his and let him help her out.
"You're good," he said quietly, almost under his breath. The words landed more like a verdict than comfort, but something in them steadied her enough to find her feet.
Harper clutched the rag tighter, the damp fabric cooling against her skin, and nodded once. It was the only answer she had.
"Hold still a second."
Nolan's voice stayed low. His hand eased the cloth away from her nose, careful fingers catching the edge so he didn't smear more blood down her face. He tipped her chin up with his knuckles, studying the bridge in the harsh garage light. His thumb brushed lightly along the bone, testing the line, the touch gentle but clinical. A dull flare of pain answered him, but nothing shifted under the pressure.
Somewhere in the middle of it, a tear slipped free, cutting a clean track through the drying blood on her cheek. Nolan saw it—she caught the flick of his gaze, the way his mouth tightened and then eased, a trace of something softer around his eyes. He didn't mention it. His thumb brushed the streak away in the same motion he used to wipe at the blood there, like he'd folded it into the clean-up and refused to make it anything else.
"Solid," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Didn't move." The rag went back into her hand, pressed there with a brief squeeze. "Keep it on until we get upstairs."
Nolan's grip slid to her elbow, steady pressure turning her toward the corridor Brock had vanished into. Harper didn't fight it. Her legs felt heavy, her head buzzed with leftover ache, and the cloth in her grip was already cooling against her nose.
Harper stayed close to Nolan's side as they crossed the bay, the hum of fluorescents and the drip of water off the undercarriage echoing in the concrete. The elevator waited with its metal jaws open. Nolan steered her inside with a light pressure at her arm, hit the button, and the doors shut with a hollow clang. The lift shuddered upward, carrying them into thinner, quieter air.
On the residential wing, the hall stretched out in clean lines and muted light, every closed door a reminder of how ordered this place was when she wasn't behind it. Her stomach tightened. Nolan didn't ease his pace. His hand on her arm felt like a tether, pulling her along whether her feet wanted to move or not.
Brock's door loomed faster than she was ready for. Harper's steps faltered, pulse catching high in her throat. Her fingers tightened around the rag at her nose, the ache in her face flaring with every breath as the memory of his fist and the crack of her head against the SUV folded over the image of him waiting on the other side. For a second, her body tried to stop.
Nolan's grip firmed once on her elbow, a brief squeeze that said she didn't get that choice. With his other hand he reached for the lock, thumb pressing to the panel. The mechanism clicked under his touch.
He pushed the door open and tipped his chin toward the interior. "Go on," he said, voice low.
Harper stepped through first, the skin between her shoulder blades tight, half braced for his voice in the dark or for empty space where he should have been. Nolan followed a step behind and pulled the door closed, the solid click sealing off the quiet hall.
Inside, the air was still, muffled after the rain and engines outside. The apartment sat in low light, kitchen dark but for the dim spill from the hall. Brock wasn't in sight.
Nolan steered her a step further in with a light pressure at her elbow.
"Go rinse your mouth," he murmured. "Get some water in you."
Harper moved on the words more than by choice. As she passed him, his hand brushed hers and closed around the bloody cloth, tugging it gently from her grip. He folded it once into his palm, fingers tightening just enough to keep it from dripping, and stayed where he was.
She crossed to the island empty-handed, skin feeling too bare without the rag against her face. Her fingers shook once as she reached for a glass from the rack. The tap hissed when she turned it, water running clear and cold over her knuckles before the glass filled. She tipped a little into her mouth, swished the iron taste from her tongue, spat it into the sink, then filled the glass again.
She'd just lifted it halfway toward her lips when footsteps sounded, heavy and sure on the hall floor.
Brock came out of the back corridor, jacket gone, t-shirt clinging damp along his shoulders. His eyes landed on her first—the glass in her hand, the blood on her shirt, Nolan standing a pace off to the side—and pinned there.
"Don't get comfortable," he said, the words coming hard enough to scrape. "You're done. Go to your room."
Her spine went rigid. The glass touched down on the counter with a dull knock as she set it back without drinking. She kept her gaze fixed on the stone instead of his face, shoulders tightening as she stepped away from the island.
Nolan shifted like he might say something, then stayed silent, jaw working once before he let it go.
Harper moved past Brock in a careful arc, giving him every inch of space she could without making it obvious she was skirting his reach. Heat radiated off him as she slipped by; she could feel his attention on the back of her neck all the way to the mouth of the hall.
He followed, his steps a steady weight behind hers. At her door, she went through without hesitating, the habit too deep to fight. The lock clicked under his hand a second later, metal turning clean in the quiet.
Only then did he turn back toward the kitchen.
Nolan hadn't moved. He stood at the island, Harper's blood-soaked rag dangling from one hand, knuckles white around the fabric, his stare locked hard on Brock.
"Don't fucking start," Brock snapped, voice low and edged.
Nolan dropped the rag onto the counter. It hit with a wet smack, leaving a smear of red on the stone. "Bit late for that," he said. "You blew this one, Lawson."
Brock squared up, eyes narrowing. "She ripped a gun in a broker's office with cameras on every corner. I told her to stay put and keep her hands clear. One basic order, and she blew it."
"She blew it because you set her up to fail," Nolan shot back, volume climbing. "You walked her in front of Brasso like bait and hoped he'd mind his hands? You could've left her in the truck. First second he clocked her, you knew where his head was going."
"She needs to learn," Brock growled, stepping closer, finger cutting the air between them. "Clock's running. Vex isn't giving her a grace period. Out there she doesn't get to lose it and hope someone cleans up after."
Nolan's fist slammed into the counter hard enough to rattle the glass. "She doesn't get that margin because you haven't given it to her," he snapped. "You've had her on mats and at the range, sure. But you never put her in front of men like Brasso and walked her through how to survive it without biting down. You dropped her in a room full of wolves and expected her to act like she'd done a dozen sit-downs. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?"
Brock's lip curled. "You think I don't know the risk? I was a breath from stepping in—"
"Bullshit!" Nolan snapped, volume punching up. He closed the distance until their chests almost brushed, eyes hard. "I watched her in that room. She wasn't looking at Brasso, she was looking at you. She shifted closer to your side, stared at your shoulder like it was a lifeline. She was doing exactly what you told her—stay put, let you handle it—and you left her hanging."
Brock's jaw worked. "I had it—"
"You were too late!" Nolan cut in, voice cracking raw. "Twice now, under this roof, men have tried to put their hands on her. Twice, you got there in time and she walked away thinking maybe you were the line that held. Tonight was the third time. She looked to you again, waited for you to shut it down, and you took your sweet time while he talked about using her mouth and reached for her like she already belonged to him."
He jabbed a finger toward Brock's chest. "So she did the only thing that felt safe—she protected herself. And your answer was to put your fist in her face for it. That trust she was starting to hand you?" His mouth twisted. "You ground it out on the side of the goddamn truck."
Brock shoved him back a half step, heat flaring in his eyes. "You think I wanted that? You think I don't know what it cost her?"
Nolan leaned right back into the space, jaw tight, teeth bared. "Then carry it," he snapped. "Don't stand here and act like the only thing that went sideways is her finger on a trigger."
His hand flattened against Brock's chest, bunching in the fabric instead of pushing him away. "She's got Vex's clock hanging over her head. Every bad call lands on your desk first. You're the one building the runs, setting the rooms, picking who she stands in front of. If she crashes out, that failure sits on you long before it ever hits her."
Brock's chest rose hard, voice dropping into a cut-low growl. "She still ripped that gun," he said. "That choice was hers."
Nolan let out a short, brutal laugh. "You're really gonna hang it all on that?" he bit out. "You left her in front of Brasso, let him talk about using her, let him reach for her like she already belonged to him. She warned you without saying a word. You told her to stand still. You dragged your feet. She believed you'd step in and you didn't. So she protected herself. That's the instinct you beat into her out there, and now you're pissed she used it."
Brock's fists flexed at his sides, knuckles blanching. "She isn't some kid I can wrap in padding," he said. "If she doesn't learn fast, she doesn't make it. That's the reality."
Nolan's eyes burned, his voice dropping into something rougher, closer to a growl. "She isn't a kid," he said. "She's a weapon you're supposed to be tuning. Right now all you're doing is hitting it against whatever's in front of you and hoping it holds. We wiped out her father, torched her crew, tore every safe place she ever had apart, and then you dragged her under this roof. You want her to move like Syndicate? Fine. Start acting like you're training a recruit, not punishing a Viper you wish had stayed dead."
He leaned in that last fraction, words coming out quiet and lethal. "Because if you keep running her like this, you don't need Vex. You may as well walk down that hall yourself, put a bullet in her head right now, and save her the trouble of thinking she ever had a chance here."
The silence after that crackled. Brock's chest rose and fell hard, jaw clenched tight enough it looked like it hurt. Nolan held his ground, unblinking, daring him to swing or to say something that would make this worse.
Finally, Brock dragged a breath through his nose, voice scraped raw. "Get out of my face."
For a second Nolan didn't move. Then he reached out, scooped the bloody rag off the counter, and flung it into the sink with a wet slap. "Smarten the fuck up, Lawson," he said, stepping back at last. "She doesn't have room for you to keep being wrong."
He hesitated, eyes still on Brock. "And in case you're curious?" he added, voice dropping rough. "You didn't re-break her nose. I checked. Figured someone in this fucking place should give a damn."
The weight of it hung between them as Brock turned away, back rigid, shoulders carved from stone. Nolan's glare lingered another moment before he turned on his heel. His boots hit heavy across the floor, and the door slammed behind him with a crack that echoed down the hall.
Brock stood rooted in the kitchen, chest still rising fast, hands flexing like he needed something to break. The silence felt cavernous after Nolan's voice, raw edges still hanging in it. He dragged both palms down his face, exhaling hard through his teeth, then let his arms drop.
The sink gleamed under the overhead light. The glass Harper had left sat in it, half-filled from the tap, water line shivering slightly. His gaze caught on it and stuck. He reached in, fingers wrapping the cool rim, and lifted it out.
For a long moment he only held it, staring at the clear surface, condensation clinging to the sides. Then he turned, steps slow but certain, carrying it down the hall toward her door.
The lock clicked under his hand, the sound cutting clean through the quiet. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Harper lay curled on her side atop the covers, not burrowed in the way she usually hid from the room. Knees tucked close, arms folded in, her back angled toward the door. As the hinges whispered shut behind him, her shoulders pulled tighter, a faint recoil running through her frame. She wasn't asleep. She was waiting.
He stopped just inside, the glass sweating cold in his hand. For a few seconds he didn't move, watching the small hitch of her breathing, the subtle shift of someone who knew she was being watched and refused to turn and meet it.
He crossed to the desk and set the glass down, the quiet tap of it on wood loud in the small room. "I brought your water." The words came out rough, an offering that sounded too much like an order.
She didn't answer. Only shifted a fraction further into herself, like she needed extra distance from the sound of him. A sniffle slipped into the silence, small and thin, but clear enough that he caught it.
He stood there a moment longer, jaw clenched, the air heavy between them. His mouth twitched once like he might speak again—some shape of apology, explanation, anything—but whatever rose stuck in his throat and died there.
Brock turned and left, the door closing soft behind him, the lock sliding home a heartbeat later.