Page 14 of Phoenix's Rising
"We’ve told you. You didn't start anything." Phoenix's voice is certain, absolute. "The Vipers started this the day they decided violence and trafficking were acceptable. The day Demon killed good men for having principles. The day Cole put his hands on you. You're not responsible for their choices, Ivy. Not responsible for what's coming."
Never your fault, his eyes seem to say. None of this is your fault.
I want to believe him. Want to let myself off the hook for the violence that's about to unfold. But I can't shake the feeling that if I'd just stayed, just married Cole and lived with the consequences of my choices, none of this would be happening.
These nine men wouldn't be preparing for war. Wouldn't be risking their lives for a stranger who brought nothing but trouble to their door.
"I can see you spiraling." Phoenix's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Can see you taking this on like it's your burden to carry. It's not. This is on the Vipers. On Demon and Cole and every man who stood by while they turned the club into something toxic. You're just the catalyst. The excuse. But we would have ended up here regardless."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know Demon. Know how he operates. He would have pushed eventually, would have crossed a line that we couldn't ignore. Better to fight on our terms, for a reason we choose, than to wait for him to pick the battleground."
The logic makes sense even if I don't want it to. Even if the guilt still sits heavy in my chest.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now we prepare." Phoenix glances around the room, his expression hardening. "We make sure we're ready for whatever they throw at us. Make sure you're safe, make sure the club is secure, make sure we have plans and backup plans."
"And me? What do I do?"
"You stay here. Stay safe. Let us handle the rest."
I should be grateful for that. Should be relieved that I don't have to do anything except hide behind these men and their protection. But part of me, the part that spent two years learning to survive, rebels against the idea of being passive. Of letting other people fight my battles while I cower in a bedroom upstairs.
"I want to help," I say.
"You are helping." Judge's voice is kind. "By being here, by giving us a reason to finally deal with the Vipers, you're helping more than you know."
It doesn't feel like enough. Doesn't feel like I'm doing anything except causing problems and expecting other people to solve them.
Phoenix must see something in my face because his expression softens.
"You've been through hell," he says. "You ran from a man who hurt you, drove through the night to get here, showed up at a stranger's door at four in the morning with nothing but hope and desperation. You've done enough, Ivy. Let us do the rest."
I'm not used to kindness, not from men, not from anyone really. The Vipers weren't kind. Cole definitely wasn't kind. The world hasn't been kind to me in a very long time.
But Phoenix looks at me like I'm worth protecting. Like my safety matters, my comfort matters, my fear matters.
I don't know what to do with that.
"Can we—" I stop, swallow, try again. "Can we talk? Just the two of us? I need to understand what this means. What's coming. And I can't—" I glance around the room at eight men watching me. "I can't think straight with everyone staring at me."
It's the truth. The attention is overwhelming, suffocating. I need space to breathe, to process, to understand what I've walked into.
"Of course." Phoenix is already moving toward me, and the other men are tactfully looking away. "Let's go back to your room. We can talk there, one-on-one. No pressure."
No pressure. The words are such a stark contrast to my life with Cole, where everything was pressure and control and fear, that I almost laugh.
Instead, I nod and turn back toward the stairs.
Phoenix follows. Tall, broad and covered in ink. He's dangerous. I can see that in the scars on his knuckles, in the way he holds himself, but the danger isn't directed at me.
It's directed at anyone who tries to hurt me. The distinction matters more than I can articulate.
We reach the room Judge showed me last night, and I push the door open. It's still small and clean and safe, the bed rumpled from where I slept in my clothes, too exhausted and overwhelmed to do anything else.
I turn to face Phoenix, and he's standing in the doorway, not coming in. Giving me space even though I'm the one who asked for this conversation.
