Page 9 of Dreadful

My stomach drops. A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck. “I’m the reason you were even in that position.”

“Can you table whatever the fuck is happening between you two until we’re not fucking vulnerable on the side of the road? Because what the fuck,” Lola grits out.

Rafe closes the distance until his breath is warm against my mouth. “It was a coincidence. Devil’s Hand has been looking for an excuse for ten years.”

“But not the Widowmakers,” I say, the words coming out ragged. My good hand finds the torn fabric of his shirt, gripping tight like I could physically stop him from rewriting this.

His thumb brushes my jaw. “Widowmakers want to run their shit through Hollow Beach. We stand in their way. Simple math.”

Something inside my chest fractures, and my breath hitches. I pull back just enough to see the unyielding line of his mouth, the dark certainty in his eyes. “Why? Why are you protecting me—us? When they realize what I⁠—”

“Rafe,” Lola snaps.

“Trust me.” The words are a low hum against my mouth as his lips brush mine.

My breath catches. I taste smoke and his promise. My hand finds the bare skin of his waist, and I don’t pull away.

“Bellamy.” Beck’s voice is a strained thing, frayed at the edges with fear.

Engines growl somewhere close. A siren wails, directionless in the narrow street. “We can’t stay here,” I say, the words scraping out of me.

Rafe’s gaze cuts to Beckett. The silence between them is thick, charged. Beckett doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away—just holds the stare, his jaw set, his shoulders squared against the weight of it.

After a beat that stretches too long, Rafe’s hand dips into his pocket. He pulls out a set of keys and tosses them in a short, clean arc. Beck catches them against his chest without breaking eye contact.

“Take the car. Drive south until you land wherever the fuck you’re supposed to be surfing with friends. Stay on service roads, no highways. And you don’t stop. Not for food, not for gas, not for shit,” Rafe orders.

“No,” we all say, a fractured chorus.

My vision swims, the chain link fence behind me seeming to sway. Is it the blood soaking through Rafe’s shirt around my arm, or the raw, metallic fear coating my throat? The warehouse is an orange smear against the night, spitting embers. Abel Lawrence is out there. Malcolm Crowe. Gage and Cruz and Bishop are somewhere out here.

And Rafe is trying to carve my brother out of this, send him into the dark alone. Where I can’t reach him. Can’t stand between him and whatever comes next.

“Go, Beck.” Rafe’s voice is low. It doesn’t sound like him. Not the Rafe who laughs when he fights, who taunts when he’s cornered.

Beck doesn’t move. “I’m not leaving my sisters here.”

“They’re safe with me.” Rafe doesn’t hesitate.

A muscle in Beck’s jaw twitches, his mouth curling into a sneer. “From what I heard in there, you’re in more shit than I was.”

Rafe tilts his head, the movement slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up something that thought it was clever. “And how exactly did you find yourself in the Widowmakers’ possession again?”

Beck’s mouth seals shut. His brows lower, shadows pooling beneath them.

Rafe exhales slowly—a controlled release of air—but his shoulders stay locked. “I’ll get your sisters out of Hollow Beach. But you can’t come back with us. Not without bringing the clubs and cops right to our door.” He gestures with his chin toward the SUV next to us. “Car’s clean. Just ditch it when you get to where you’re going.”

The truth lands like a punch to the throat. My gaze snaps to Rafe’s, my lips parting around a breath I can’t quite catch. “You have to go, Beck.”

“Bells.” Beck’s voice cracks on the single syllable, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle working.

I push off the fence. The chain link rattles behind me. I get one arm around him and feel how rigid he is, every muscle braced. “It’s temporary,” I murmur into his shoulder.

He exhales as he hugs me back. “I’m sorry, Bellamy. I should’ve⁠—”

I pull back and look at him. He looks so young at this moment. “It’s fine. We’ll talk about it later.”

“How long?” he asks.