Page 28 of Steel's Secret
You weren’t supposed to survive the storm.
My stomach knots. The words look harmless sitting there, but they hum with intent. I scroll once, no name, no trace. Whoever sent it knew exactly when to strike. I thumb over the screen and almost delete it. Instead, I memorize it. That kind of threat deserves remembering.
I slide my phone into my pocket, grab my cut, and step back to the bed.
Aria’s on her side now, one arm across the pillow, her face half hidden by her dark hair. There’s a peace in her expression I haven’t seen in years. She looks like the girl who used to fall asleep in the back of my truck after long drives to nowhere, when the only thing that mattered was staying out past curfew and outrunning everything else.
I could almost pretend we’re still those kids. The ones who thought loyalty and love were enough to outrun bloodlines and bullets.
I kneel beside the bed. My knees creak, my chest tightens, and for a second, I almost lose my nerve. Then I slip Tama’s ring into her hand. Her fingers twitch automatically, curling around it like it belongs there.
“Until I earn peace,” I whisper. The words taste like rust.
I stand, step back, and watch her hand tighten around the ring. For once, I don’t feel like I’m carrying my father’s ghost. I feel like I’m finally giving him a reason to rest. The ring glintsonce in her palm, a flash of gold against pale skin. It looks right there, like it found its way home.
The urge to wake her, to tell her what it means, hits hard. But I don’t. Because if I start talking, I won’t stop.
She stirs, her long dark lashes fluttering. “Steel?”
I straighten too fast. “Yeah.”
Her eyes find me, still foggy with sleep. “You leaving?”
“Clubhouse needs checking. Roads will be clear soon.”
Her mouth tugs down. “You could’ve waited.”
“Could’ve,” I say, reaching for the door. “Shouldn’t.”
The corner of her mouth tilts up, not quite a smile. “You’re still terrible at goodbyes.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Guess I am.”
I hesitate long enough to make it hurt. “Stay until the plows make it through. Lock the door behind me.”
She pulls the blanket tighter, watching me like she’s memorizing my edges. “You ordering me?”
I almost smile. “Just asking nice.”
Her eyes soften. “You don’t do nice.”
“Trying something new.”
There’s a flicker between us, something tender, fragile. Her hand slips from under the blanket, and I take it without thinking. The contact is small, quick, but it hits like a lifetime.
Her thumb brushes my wrist, catching on the pulse there. “Be careful.”
“Always.” The lie tastes familiar. Careful isn’t in my nature, but I’ll pretend for her. I let go before the moment can hurt us both.
Outside, the world’s white again, blinding under the mid-morning sun. The snow’s piled high against the garage door, the kind of drifts that swallow noise whole. My boots crunch through the crusted surface, and every step leaves a mark I know the wind will erase before noon.
The air smells like metal and pine sap, sharp enough to sting. My fingers ache from the cold before I’ve gone twenty feet. Every sound feels magnified, the scrape of leather, the grind of snow underfoot, the faint echo of the highway beyond the ridge. The world’s moved on, but I’m still stuck in last night.
By the time I reach the main road, the cold’s cut through the leather. My breath fogs the air, burning my throat.
The distance between the garage and the clubhouse isn’t far, just a few hundred feet, but it feels like miles. Like walking out of something I wasn’t supposed to find.
Every step feels heavier than the last. Every breath tastes like regret. I tell myself this is what leadership looks like, walking away first, even when it tears something vital out of you. Halfway there, I stop. The air’s sharp enough to sting, but it clears my head.
