Page 3 of Dreadful

So Rafe recognizes them then. My thumbnail finds the seam of my trigger guard and presses in, hard enough to sting. Beckett shuffles a step closer to me, like he can feel the air shift too.

The man’s attention never wavers from Rafe. “I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see someone turn on a Calloway.”

“Damn, Crowe. Stop being so fucking obsessed with me. First your brother, now you,” Rafe drawls.

Every muscle in my body tightens. Crowe. Not Elias—but the resemblance is there, something in the jaw, the set of the eyes. I find myself wondering, distantly, how Elias's wrist healed up after Rafe snapped it on the beach.

Abel glances between Crowe and Rafe with open amusement, clearly enjoying whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

I jerk my chin toward him. “What is this?”

Abel slowly lifts one shoulder, never losing that smirk. “Opportunity.”

Rafe huffs another sharp laugh. “Still letting other people fight your battles for you, Crowe?”

Crowe's smile widens slightly at that, though it never reaches his eyes. “You always did mistake restraint for weakness.” His thumb taps once, twice, against his thigh—a quick, irritated rhythm he cuts off abruptly. He turns to me then, gaze dropping to the gun at my side before lifting. “You must be Bellamy.” He says my name like it’s something he’s been rehearsing. “Malcolm Crowe. President of the Devil’s Hand.”

"Don't fucking talk at her," Rafe snaps, voice pitched low.

The warehouse suddenly feels too small, too hot. Unpredictable like a shelf cloud forming over the ocean.

I love you.

The words slam through me again, colliding violently with the pulse hammering in my throat.

Malcolm laughs, genuine glee brightening his face. “Oh, this is even better than you promised, Abel.”

“Awe, Crowe.” Rafe unfolds from the ground like a leopard stretching before it pounces. He stands beside me, close enough that his arm presses into mine. “You still mad I wouldn’t fuck you all those years ago?” He lets the silence sit there for a beat, watching Malcolm's face. “I told you, man, you just don’t do it for me.”

A couple of the Widowmakers bark out startled laughs before quickly silencing themselves.

The energy in the room shifts, and I can feel it happening in real time like a wire pulling tighter and tighter beneath my skin.

“Shut the fuck up, Calloway.” Malcolm grits his teeth as he pulls a gun from the back of his pants.

The movement happens so fast my body reacts before my brain catches up. I step directly in front of Rafe, raising my own weapon as my pulse explodes against my ribs hard enough to make my hands shake.

“Bellamy,” Beckett snaps from somewhere behind me.

Malcolm barely even glances at the gun pointed at him. His attention stays fixed on Rafe over my shoulder, cold satisfaction settling across his face. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re protecting, little girl.”

The words scrape something raw inside my chest. I tighten my grip and steady my hand.

“We had a deal,” I say, glancing at Abel.

Abel inclines his head, his brows dipping toward one another. “True. But I also made a deal with Crowe here.” His eyes flick toward Malcolm, his grin never wavering. “Seems he wants his pound of flesh now. Who am I to deny a man justice?”

Panic claws violently at the soft tissue around my lungs, but I force myself not to show it. My mind keeps trying to calculate angles, exits, numbers, distance between bodies and weapons and Lola hidden somewhere above us in the catwalk system.

But there are too many variables, too many unknowns.

Malcolm takes a slow step forward, gun still aimed in my direction. “Move away from him. Unless you want to catch a bullet trying to protect a Calloway.” He leans over and spits after he says their surname.

My heart pounds harder.

I love you.

The words slam through me again with brutal timing.