Page 4 of Falcon’s Forever

"Those weren't Church." Do I need to spell it out for him?

"They were club business." That hits me hard.

My jaw tightens, because he's right and I hate that he's right. "I've handled everything Vulture's asked me to handle."

"That isn't the same as being here."

The words land harder than they should, mostly because there's no heat behind them. A year ago, this would have ended with one of us swinging. Maybe both of us. Now he just looks tired, and tired is worse.

"You keeping score now?"

"I'm your brother. Somebody has to."

Before I can answer, his whole face shifts. He doesn’t look amused, he looks more like he’s concerned, and I hate concern more than I hate being called out.

"You know she's up," he says.

Every muscle across my shoulders locks at once. There are a dozen women on this property. He doesn't have to say which one.

"She went to Sterling about twenty minutes ago," Zip adds. "One of the younger girls had a bad night."

I look toward the hallway before I can stop myself, and of course he catches it.

"Don't," I warn.

"Didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was about to tell you Harrier made a real breakfast for once, so maybe try eating some of it instead of living on whiskey and rage."

Harrier points the spatula at him without turning around. "Leave my name out of whatever weird marriage argument you two are having."

I take another mouthful of coffee and let it go, because pushing this further with an audience isn't worth it. Harrier slides a plate in front of me. Eggs, bacon, and toast. When I don't reach for it fast enough, he points at the stool.

"Sit."

"Did you forget who outranks who?"

"In Church, you. In my kitchen, sit the fuck down."

I sit, because arguing with Harrier before I've eaten is not a good idea, I know I won’t win. I'm halfway through the eggs when I hear her voice.

It's quiet, quiet enough that I shouldn't be able to pick it out over the rest of the noise, but I've known that voice too long. My body recognizes it before my head catches up.

Cara steps into the common room with Sarah beside her, and the room doesn't stop. That's one of the things I'm proudest of about these men. Six months ago, most of them wouldn't have known what to do around a group of women who'd survived what these women survived. Now nobody stares. Rook shifts his chair a few inches so Sarah has room to pass without being crowded. Harrier drops his volume without being asked. Ice Pick moves his phone off the empty stool next to him. Nobody's told them to do any of it. That's what makes it matter.

Sarah looks better than the day we pulled her out. There's color in her face, less tension in the way she carries herself, though she still checks the room on entry and picks her exit before anything else. Cara walks beside her carrying two mugs, her hair twisted up loosely, wearing a pale cardigan that looks completely wrong against all this leather and denim.

Somehow, she looks right here anyway. That thought lands somewhere I don't want it to.

She spots me, and for half a second everything else, the room, the noise, my brothers, all of it fades out. There's just Cara looking at me with the same eyes I remember, except they aren't quite the same. There's something in them now that wasn't there five years ago, something I'd give almost anything to erase. But underneath it, there's still a flicker of the woman who used to steal half my pillow and call me an asshole before she'd even brushed her teeth.

Then she looks away, and heads for Sterling's table instead.

That's what she trusts now. Structure. Plans. People who tell her exactly what's going to happen and then do it. Sterling's good at that. He listens while she talks, nodding, not pushing, waiting for Sarah to be ready before he asks her anything.

Zip bumps my shoulder. "Stop staring."