Page 31 of Priest

Bluebell.

Her name moves through me before I can stop it.

Not even her real name, and that’s the part that keeps cutting deeper. Bluebell. Mine in every way that mattered and none of the ways that would help me find her. Ghost has nothing to work with because I made sure there was nothing to hold. No last name. No address. No job. No roots I could follow when she finally decided to pull herself out of mine.

I stand near the back wall and watch the clubhouse breathe around me. Sadie laughs softly near Lena, careful now, quieter than before. Tessa remains at the edge of the group, observing. Raina is already done pretending to care. Prospects watch the clock for family day to end, restless for the kids and Old Ladies to clear out so the clubhouse can turn back into what it is after dark.

Everything looks right if you don’t know what wrong feels like.

Deacon finds me where I always end up when my head gets too loud, half in shadow near the back doors with the noise of the clubhouse muffled behind me. He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t clap a hand on my shoulder or crack some bullshit joke to make it easier. He just leans against the wall beside me, close enough that I can feel his presence without looking.

“You’re wound tight,” he says after a minute.

I huff a quiet breath. “You takin’ notes now?”

“Don’t need to. Been riding with you long enough to know what it looks like when your head’s not where it should be.”

I glance at him then. Deacon’s watching the room the way I taught him to, loose and alert, reading everything without staring too hard at any one thing. He clocks Lena’s quiet face. Tessa’s stillness. Raina leaving out the side door with a look that says she’ll have words with Nomad later. He clocks Sadie too, because Deacon misses less than people think.

“The club’s fine,” I say.

“That’s not what I was sayin’.”

I don’t answer right away.

He pushes off the wall and turns to face me fully. “You’re carrying too much. You think you’re hiding it, but you’re not. Not from me.”

There’s no accusation in his voice. Just fact.

“I’ve handled worse,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “That’s kind of the problem.”

I let that sit between us, because Deacon has always known where to cut. Not deep enough to bleed me out. Just deep enough to make me look.

“You’ve been off since she left,” he says, dropping his voice.

I stiffen, but he keeps going before I can shut it down.

“And I’m not bringing it up to poke at you. I’m bringing it up because when you’re like this, you don’t delegate. You don’t lean. You grind yourself down and call it leadership.”

“You sayin’ I’m slipping?”

“I’m sayin’ you’re human. The club needs you clear. I need you clear.”

That lands heavier than anything else tonight.

Deacon doesn’t ask for things. Not from me.

He crosses his arms, gaze steady. “You don’t have to talk to me about it. Hell, you don’t even have to admit it out loud. But you can’t keep pretending nothing’s rattling you.”

“What do you suggest?”

He smiles then, small and knowing. “You already know.”

I shake my head. “You just want company.”

“Maybe.” His mouth tips like he knows he’s got me halfway there. “Maybe I want you doing something that feels like you again instead of standing still and letting your thoughts chew you up.”