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Soldiers were killers, but they weren’t murderers. They were nothing like Brady Everdeen.
What had happened today? How had things gone so wrong so quickly?
Lying back on the rock and looking up at the swirling sky, Lyra replayed that scene in the Bulls’ no longer gross kitchen.
It was his Righteous Fist patch. She’d thought of her father’s old patch and asked Zach if he’d killed anyone, and he’d gone tense, gotten defensive. And then she’d gotten defensive right back. Because she’d already been feeling defensive and upset, but not at him. At Pop and Reed—and at the way it seemed the Bulls were already changing them, before they had patches of their own.
But why had she been so sure what that Righteous Fist patch meant? Because of the way Pop had explained his Soul Reaper patch: it was for men who’d done the hardest work the club had.
Killing. That was what patches like that meant. But baked into those patches was the idea that killing washard, that it sat hard on the man who wore one.
Because theyweren’tmurderers. They were men who’dhadto kill, to protect what they loved.
To protect.
She’d always known that her father would kill to protect his family. Without there ever being an instance in which he’d had to even threaten it, so far as she knew, she’d always been absolutely sure Ben Haddon wouldn’t even blink before he’d end anyone who put his family in danger. His willingness to protect them at any cost was practically carved into his skin, it was so obvious. And she’d always feltsafetyin that truth.
She’d feltlovein it. In fact, it was probably the way Pop showed his love most clearly.
Staring up at the desert stars, watching the faintly lavender and rose puffs of the Milky Way, Lyra saw her outlaws for who they were—the men she loved, exactly as she’d known them to be.
But she’d let Zach think she couldn’t deal with who he was.
She owed him an apology. A big one. She’d really fucked up.
Out here, her phone had no signal, and she really did not want to talk to him in that gross house among all those men she didn’t yet know, so she headed back to her car. She’d go home, which was closer anyway, ignore Pop and Reed for now—if they were even home yet—and text Zach from there.
Hopefully, he’d be willing to hear what she had to say now.
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~oOo~
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She didn’t have totext him, because he was sitting on the front step of her house, waiting for her.
He’d come for her. He’d waited for her.Thatwas the kind of man he was.
Pop and Reed weren’t home yet; Zach’s big bike was on the driveway. When she pulled up next to it, he stood, but didn’t come closer. He simply shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and stood where he was, looking vulnerable and worried.
Her heart pounding like a bass drum, adrenaline whipping through her veins, Lyra didn’t bother to collect her bag from the seat beside her. She barely bothered to turn off the engine. Jumping from her car, leaving the door standing open and her keys still in the ignition, she ran to Zach.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
He didn’t reply. But he caught her when she got to him. Closing her up tight in his arms, he lifted her from the sidewalk and tucked his face against her neck. Lyra buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and held on as tightly as she could.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled again.
“Shhh,” he said, his breath ruffling against her skin, sending a trail of goosebumps up into her hair. “It’s okay. We’ll talk and work it out.”
Feeling weepy again, but for the opposite reason this time, Lyra nodded. “But not right now.”
“No. Not right now.” He held her even more closely, and they were still and quiet together.
Together. And forgiven.
