“Asher.”
Slowly, Ranger turned his head. A broader awareness seeped back into his midnight gaze and he finally seemed to see me.
He threw a leg over his bike and shoved his helmet on his head. I pointed north, towardshome, and he nodded.
We shot away, headlong into the biting wind, leaving the commotion behind us and making for the nearest Rebel King base, which happened to be where we had been destined for anyway. The big old house. The unholy mansion, according to Rubi, where Locke, Nash, and Orla had brought their newborn children home the day before.
Mindful of a future that kept those children safe, Nash had built a fenced-off area for bikes. Half an hour later, we pulled up inside it to find Locke forewarned and waiting for us with dry clothes for Ranger.
“You fuckin’ nutter. Miss that whistle, eh?”
Ranger called him something unspeakable and stomped inside without taking the clothes.
Locke followed him, leaving me with Nash, who seemed a little dazed, as if he had just woken from the kind of nap unique to new parents.
“Why’s everyone been swimming in their clothes?”
“Not everyone. Just Ranger.”
“You’re all wet too.” Nash gestured to my damp jeans. “And you look frozen to fuck. Come indoors.”
He didn’t wait for me to agree. Just ambled inside, leaving the door open. Had it not been winter, I might not have followed him, but I did not want his home—hischildren—to be cold.
I hung my helmet and stepped inside the house, noting the changes since I had last been here, the night Cam and I had shoved Willow’s rogue piano inside and slipped away.
The kitchen now had walls, plastered by Ranger and painted by Mateo, a large stove at the centre of the room, kicking out heat that drew me in. Thepianowas tucked in the corner, repainted and cleared of dust.
I ran a finger along the mahogany lid, a phantom melody in my head, distant but as much a part of me as every other memory. Laughter. The smell of scorched flesh?—
“Here.” Nash came up behind me. “These should fit you.”
I retracted my hand in time for Nash to press a pile of folded clothes into my grasp. Soft and worn. Comforting, like the earthy warmth from the stove. “This house is very nice now.”
Nash eyed me. “It’s getting there. Are you okay?”
“Yes.” He did not believe me, I could tell. But I had no way of fixing that. The events of the last hour had done something to my mind I could not seem to move past, and being so wet and cold while I could hear the low rumble of Locke’s voice in the next room…I did not feel entirely present, and only the resurgent pain in my hip kept my vision clear. “Thank you for the clothes.”
Nash said something else.
I did not hear him, and I was unsurprised when Locke took his place what felt like seconds later.
And Locke…he did not speak. Just took the dry clothes from me and gestured for me to remove my jacket and boots. He took them away and returned to do the same with the rest of my clothes.
I obeyed his silent request and stripped, dressing in the dry clothes fast enough that he did not have much time to endure the scars on my torso. Locke, though. He did not flinch away from them anyway. Why would he? His were far worse. Instead he straightened the shirt that smelled of the chaplain—of Embry, who I had grown to like very much—and drew me into a hug far warmer than any stove.
This man, he had been a friend to Ranger far longer than he had been such a comfort to me, but his embrace was as familiar to me as Jake’s. I sank into it, grounding myself in all the words Locke did not say. Because he did not need to.
He knew.
I knew.
We just were.
The brick wall blocking my brain crumbled, the dust fading. A breath left my body, and I was back in the room. In this house, where Ranger was. How had I lost track of him?
Locke pulled back, rubbing my arms with his big hands. “Come inside, brother. I want you to meet our kids.”
* * *