Page 60 of Brick's Retribution

For months, finding Lashes has been my obsession, the thing pushing me to get through the day.

But now there's Imani to consider.

Every instinct I have has shifted, becoming personal in ways that terrify me.

This isn't just about getting her back to the club safe and sound anymore.

The thought of losing Imani, of failing to keep her safe, triggers something—the same fear of abandonment that's haunted me since my father went to prison.

"You're thinking too hard," Imani says softly, her voice echoing off the concrete walls.

There's something different in her tone now, an undertone that wasn't there before.

She knows my body now, has seen me at my most vulnerable, and that adds to the connection.

"Just processing," I reply, though that's an understatement.

I'm trying to figure out how protecting her has become more important to me than finding my best friend.

The guilt of that sits heavy in my chest.

We emerge from a maintenance tunnel into a wider section of the drain system.

Natural light filters down from storm grates above, creating patterns on the wet concrete.

I can smell the industrial district—motor oil, welding fumes, the god-awful odor of the meat processing plant that sits three blocks from the clubhouse.

Home is close.

"We're close," I tell her, checking my mental map of the underground system. "Maybe another ten minutes."

Amara makes sure we know everything, how to get out of numerous situations whenever the situation arises.

She trains us to think on our feet, and do whatever is necessary.

She nods, adjusting the strap of her bag.

Even after everything we've been through—the gunfights, escaping through the city, hours in these damp tunnels—she still looks beautiful.

Messy and dirty, but beautiful.

Her tight curls have come loose, framing her face in soft spirals.

There's a smudge of dirt on her cheek that I have the sudden urge to wipe away.

"What happens when we get there?" she asks, and I can hear the uncertainty beneath her composed exterior.

"You meet the club, my family," I say, the words carrying more weight than they should. "And we figure out our next move."

But even as I say it, I'm not sure what our next move should be.

Amara will want some sort of report, an explanation of what happened during the run.

How do I explain how it became so personal?

How do I tell them that I'm falling for the woman I was supposed to protect?

As we continue through the tunnels, my phone buzzes with an incoming message.

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