Page 25 of Rebel
“Pretty much,” Carter answers, his voice low and even, measured the way it gets when he’s containing something bigger underneath.
Sloane’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, every inch of her screaming discipline and distrust. “You’re either brave or stupid walking in here after that.”
He doesn’t blink. “Depends on the day.”
Divine huffs from behind her tablet. “He’s not lying. Their signal was military-grade. Vultures ran a triangulated ping to track him. He just didn’t know he lit up my network when he did.”
“Lucky us,” I mutter.
Allura’s eyes shift to me, sharp enough to cut through the room. “Rebel. I assume there’s something you didn’t tell us.”
Every head turns toward me. The heat crawling up my neck isn’t from embarrassment, it’s exposure. “I traced the money. The ghost account is using Alex’s name. It led to Bishop.”
Sloane’s expression darkens. “And you didn’t bring it to Church.”
“Because I didn’t have proof,” I snap. “And I wasn’tabout to drag the club into something that could’ve been smoke.”
“Smoke gets people killed,” she fires back.
Carter cuts in, tone even. “She wasn’t wrong. The moment she moved on that trail, the Vultures were watching. They’ve been reactivating dead accounts tied to Slade’s old network.”
Allura studies him. “And what do you want from us, Carter Bishop?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I want them gone. You want your ledgers clean. We can help each other.”
“Help,” Sloane repeats, like the word’s poison. “We don’t take help from strangers who drag heat to our doorstep.”
“Then don’t think of me as a stranger,” he says quietly. “Think of me as the reason you’re still breathing.”
The silence afterward is heavy enough to crack concrete. I can't decide whether to thank him or break his nose. The urge to do both sits equal in my chest.
Allura’s voice cuts through, soft but final. “He stays.”
Sloane’s head snaps up. “You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about strategy.” Allura turns to me. “He’ll take the guest quarters behind the shelter. You’ll oversee his access and feed him what he needs. No more, no less.”
My stomach dips low. “You wantmeto babysit him?”
Her smirk is faint and dangerous. “You brought him here. You keep him on a leash, Treasurer.”
Divine hides a laugh behind her coffee mug. “Better buy a thick leash.”
I glare at her, but she’s already typing again, mutteringabout system sweeps and firewall repairs. Carter just nods, no argument, no ego, which is somehow worse.
After everyone leaves, I walk him to the guest quarters like a jealous captain escorting a pawn to his cell. He trails behind me, the cut on his arm stiff under the fabric, the bandage dark where blood’s seeped through. When the shelter door swings open, the air changes, quieter, softer, threaded with voices that don’t speak in threats. The Haven is a whole other world of my kingdom. Women dozing in donated sweaters, a little boy with a mop of hair curled against a stuffed bear, a woman with a scar across her eyebrow humming a lullaby she learned in Spanish. The low light makes everyone look like angels at rest, which this world rarely allows.
The room where I tell people to sleep is small but efficient. Cots line the walls in neat rows, and a donated bookshelf houses mismatched children’s books. One wall is painted a bright sunflower by French when she had a paint day and a hangover. At the center is a table with the legal binders, our emergency cash box, and the ledger I sleep with in my head. Divine’s security panel is tucked near the door, flat, dark, humming like a beast.
I tell Carter about the patrols, lock schedules, and the noise discipline at night. He listens, nodding, but there’s something softer in his tone when he says, “You did good building this.”
I don’t answer. Compliments are dangerous coming from him.
Carter stays in a spare room near the far wall, wherethe night sounds won’t slap him awake. I sleep in the small office under the guise of keeping an eye on donations. The truth sits heavy in my chest. I hate the idea of him alone in a room that isn’t mine. I hate how much I want him to be mine, or at least to stay put.
The night stretches long, elastic with small noises. The creak of cots, a rain gutter tapping like a metronome, the quiet shuffle of a volunteer checking on pills. Every sound folds into my grief, sharpening it.
I flip through the ledger A. Slade Logistics entries in neat, deliberate handwriting, dotted transfers to shell companies, the same pattern repeated like a prayer. The numbers line up. The intent is uglier. Whoever resurrected Alex’s name knew exactly what they were doing.
