Chapter Two
921 Words
Ward Ellsworth was already running.
The sound of the crash hadn’t finished echoing before his body moved, muscle memory overriding shock, cleats dropped along with his gym bag, breath sharp and focused. He yanked open the driver’s side door, the hood crushed against a large oak.
Scarlet was slumped forward, unconscious. Blood traced a thin line from her hairline, dark against pale skin.
“Scarlet,” Ward said, voice calm but cutting through the chaos. “Hey. Stay with me.”
Henry hovered uselessly at his shoulder, hands half-raised, panic flaring. “Is she breathing?”
“Yes,” Ward said, already checking. “Weak pulse.”
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone was crying. Someone else was shouting. Ward shut all of it out.
The hospital waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, too unforgiving. The group sat together again, but whatever loose ease had formed earlier was gone, replaced by tension that pressed down on every breath. Pierce stood near the wall, arms crossed, jaw locked so tightly it looked like it might crack. Ward sat rigid in one of the plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if answers might be written there. Quinn slipped his phone from his pocket.
Missed calls. A text.
He turned slightly away from the others, shielding the screen without meaning to.
Soren clocked it instantly. “You good?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
I
t was a lie. They both knew it.
Across the room, Cade watched Pierce with narrowed eyes. “You okay, man?”
“
I’m fine.”
“You’re standing like you’re about to punch a wall.”
Pierce exhaled, sharp and controlled, but didn’t respond.
Scarlet came back to herself in fragments.
Light first. Then sound. Then the weight of her own body, heavy and wrong. Her eyes fluttered open. Panic surged instantly, raw and unfiltered. Her hand twitched, then reached.
Henry was there immediately. “Hey. Hey,” he said softly. “You’re okay.”
Her breathing spiked, shallow and fast. “Where-” She swallowed hard. “Where is he?”
Henry hesitated for half a second. Just long enough. “He’s not here.”
Something in her shoulders loosened. Just a fraction.
“Did I…?” Her voice cracked. “Did I crash?”
Henry nodded. “You scared the hell out of us.”
She closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” He pulled a chair closer but didn’t touch her, like he was afraid contact might shatter something delicate.
She opened her eyes again, really looking at him this time. “You stayed.”
“Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Too late.”
Pierce leaned against the wall outside her room, forehead briefly touching the cool surface before he caught himself.
Cade approached slowly, like one wrong word might send Pierce over the edge. “You wanna sit?”
“I’m good.”
“You’ve been ‘good’ for like… fifteen years.”
Pierce’s jaw flexed. “Not now, Cade.”
Cade nodded, but didn’t leave. “You don’t have to be okay all the time.”
Pierce finally looked at him. Something raw flickered there, fear, anger, something close to grief, then vanished behind control. “If I’m not okay,” Pierce said quietly, “things fall apart.”
Cade held his gaze. “Maybe they already did.”
Silence stretched between them. Pierce didn’t snap. He didn’t walk away either.
Later, Scarlet sat up slightly, propped by pillows. Awake, fragile, eyes too sharp for someone who’d just been told she was lucky.
Ward stood near the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, giving her space. “You have a concussion,” he said. “You’re lucky.”
She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t feel lucky.”
Ward hesitated, then softened. “You don’t have to talk. Just… don’t leave yet.”
Her gaze flicked to the door. “He’ll be mad.”
Henry stiffened. “He doesn’t get to decide everything.”
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. “He always does.”
Pierce stepped forward before he could think better of it. “You can stay here tonight. They won’t release you anyway.”
“And when he comes back?”
Pierce held her gaze. “Then he deals with us.” The words surprised everyone. Including Pierce.
Scarlet swallowed. Gave a small, terrified nod.
Benny Mangione sat calmly in the hospital security office. He held his coffee like it was an extension of his hand—relaxed, unhurried. His suit was immaculate, dark fabric tailored to a broad, solid frame. Thick silver threaded through his black hair, slicked neatly back. His face was carved sharp and deliberate: strong Italian features, a nose that had likely been broken once and set without care, heavy brows shadowing eyes that smiled long before they ever warmed.
His voice was smooth. Measured. Almost gentle. “Teenagers make bad decisions,” he said, shaking his head with practiced disappointment. “I just want my daughter safe.” Security nodded. “But some of those boys…” Benny sighed softly. “Bad influences.” Names were written down. Pierce. Quinn. Henry. Benny rose, buttoning his jacket with unhurried precision.
“Thank you for your help,” he said, smile unwavering. “Family is everything.”
Then he turned and walked out, leaving the room colder than before.
- Writer
