I want to argue—want to prove I can handle this myself, that I don't need protection or supervision. But I can see the sense in it. See the compromise he's offering. "Fine."
"Xavier?" Asher asks, clearly hoping for backup. Hoping Xavier will side with him against me.
Xavier's quiet for a long moment, studying me with those dark eyes that see too much. I can feel him weighing options, calculating risks and benefits. His fingers drum against the armrest of the wheelchair—that nervous tic he only does when he's deeply conflicted about a decision.
I hold his gaze. Let him see that I need this. Need to feel useful again, need to do something other than spiral in my own head.
"She goes," he says finally, and relief floods through me. "With Zay. They make an appearance, remind everyone who's in charge, and come back. Quick trip. In and out. No extended stay."
"This is a mistake," Asher states flatly, no inflection. Just fact delivered with absolute certainty.
"Noted," Xavier replies. "But it's my mistake to make."
Asher's jaw works. He looks like he wants to argue further, wants to lay out all the reasons this is a bad idea, all the ways it could go wrong. But he just nods once—sharp and controlled and pissed off. "Fine. But when this goes sideways, don't say I didn't warn you."
He stands and walks out without another word. The front door opens and closes with deliberate care—not a slam, but close enough to convey his displeasure. Close enough to make his point.
"He's pissed," Zay observes unnecessarily.
"He'll get over it," Xavier says, but he sounds less certain than his words suggest. Sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as us.
I stand, suddenly needing to move, to do something. "When do we leave?"
"Give me an hour to make some calls," Zay replies, already pulling out his phone. "Let people know you're coming. We don't want to walk into an ambush."
"You think they'd—" I start.
"I think we don't take chances," he interrupts, voice hard. "Not anymore. Not with you."
The protectiveness in his tone makes something twist in my chest. Warmth and guilt tangled together.
"Okay," I agree. "One hour."
Xavier catches my hand as I pass his wheelchair. His grip is strong, stronger than it was even a week ago. "Be careful," he says quietly. "Johnson's looking for any excuse to challenge our authority. Don't give him one."
"I won't."
"And Val?" He tugs me closer, voice dropping lower so only I can hear. "We're okay. Last night—we're okay."
The reassurance makes my eyes burn with unshed tears. Because we're not okay. We can't be okay as long as I'm keeping this secret. But I nod anyway. "We're okay."
I squeeze his hand and head to the back of the house to change.
One hour until we face the club. One hour to prepare for whatever's coming. One hour before everything potentially falls apart.
I close my eyes and try to remember what Xavier felt like last night. Try to hold onto that feeling of being present, of being alive, of forgetting everything except his hands on my body.
But the memory is already fading.
And the fear is creeping back in.
Always the fear.
Always the guilt.
Always the knowledge that I'm one revelation away from losing everything.
An hour later, I'm in the passenger seat of Zay's truck, heading back toward the compound. The drive is quiet. Uncomfortable. Neither of us quite knows what to say or how to navigate this new awkwardness between us.