Page 51 of Falcon’s Forever

I stop and look back.

She gives me a small smile. “You stayed.”

I know what she means. Not only tonight. Here, at the fence, with the club.

“Yeah,” I answer quietly. “I stayed.”

I walk back to the clubhouse without looking behind me. Not because I’m running, but because, for once, I trust that when I turn around tomorrow, she’ll still be there.

Chapter 8

Cara

By midnight the women's house looks less like a refuge and more like the aftermath of a very strange sleepover.

Blankets cover most of the living room floor. Pillows have migrated from every bedroom in the house, and somebody's dragged down three mattresses despite the fact that half the women now insisting on sleeping downstairs are the same ones who complained about communal sleeping during the security meeting. Fear changes preferences fast.

Maya's claimed the biggest corner of the sofa and built a defensive nest out of cushions, snacks, and two bottles of water. Sarah's cross-legged on the rug with a book open in her lap, though she's been staring at the same page for at least ten minutes.

Emily chose to stay upstairs. Yesterday she'd have followed whatever everyone else decided, because being alone felt too dangerous. Tonight she listened to the update, checked the new lock herself, and told me to stop hovering after the second time I checked on her. I'll take that as progress.

The house is quieter now, though it doesn't feel peaceful exactly. Every creak carries too far. Every engine outside makes somebody lift their head. Still, nobody's asking what's happening, because the security phone's kept updating us through the evening. Rook and Ice Pick are back from watching the warehouse. Nothing moved. The SUV hasn't been seen again. Patrols stay doubled.

Information doesn't erase fear. It stops fear from inventing ten worse versions of the truth, and I'll take that over sitting here scared and guessing.

Frankie comes into the kitchen carrying six empty mugs balanced between both hands. “You’re officially banned from making any more tea.”

I glance at the clock. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly.” She sets the mugs beside the sink. “People have consumed enough caffeine to see through time.”

“I thought that was coffee,” I point out.

“You made tea with enough sugar to qualify as dessert,” Frankie replies.

I lift my mug protectively. “It’s emotional support tea.”

“It’s emotional diabetes,” she corrects.

Frankie loads the mugs into the dishwasher, then comes to lean against the counter beside me. Her expression loses its teasing edge.

“You can stop now,” she says gently.

I stare down into my tea. “Stop what?”

“Holding the entire house up,” Frankie tells me.

“I’m not,” I deny, but the words sound weak even to me.

She turns her head and waits, and I hate when she does that, because maybe I am. The women know the threat's outside. They know someone tested the window. What the women don’t need is to see that I’m frightened too.

Except Frankie is right. Hiding it isn’t fair to me either. If we keep telling everyone that they don’t have to pretend they’re fine, I should probably stop treating myself like the exception.

“I keep expecting something else to happen,” I admit, tightening both hands around my mug.

“Me too,” Frankie says quietly.

Her honesty helps more than reassurance ever could.