Ella:
It had been a week of hell.
Seven days of chaos, silence, and unanswered questions.
Colt had been texting. Calling. Showing up at the edge of the property like some wet dog in leather begging to be let back in. He was remorseful. Apologetic. He’d say anything to undo what he did. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face twisted in guilt and that bartender’s lipstick on his collar.
Raiden had gone completely dark—off doing God knows what with that firestorm rage of his. Probably slaying every Phantom who toed out of line in a fifty-mile radius, trying to silence the screaming in his head. No calls. No texts. Just one bloody memory at my front door and a kiss on my forehead that haunted me more than anything.
And Beckett?
He practically moved into the club. His motorcycle
