Page 46 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
But Hank’s eyes stay cold. Blood trickles from his split lip, and when he wipes it away, his gaze never leaves mine. He’s compartmentalizing what happened between us, filing it away for later reckoning.
I know that look. I’ve seen it when he’s about to eliminate a target.
“Hank—”
“We’re not done with this conversation.” His voice cuts through my attempt at reconciliation. “Don’t think for a second this is over. What we need to focus on right now is how to get them back. Until then, I’m not dealing with your shit.”
He stands slowly, favoring his ribs where I landed a solid hit. When he looks at me, there’s something broken in his eyes. Something that might never heal.
“You think I’m going to forget what you said?” His voice stays deadly quiet, but I hear the fury underneath. “You claimed her like I was nothing. I won’t forget. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
The words hit harder than any punch he threw because I know Hank. When he says never, he means it.
“Look. I fucked up, and that’s not what I meant. I would never cut you out of whatwehave with Ally. I was lost and confused and enraged and fucked in the head. She’sours. Always will be.” I run a hand through my hair to hide its shaking.
Did I fuck it all up? I hope not.
But I can’t take back the words I said. Somehow, I’ll have to make it up to Hank. To him. To Blake. To Carter. Hell, to the whole damn team. It’s time I stop my personal pity party and get to work.
The fracture between us doesn’t evaporate—it widens. Every breath, every heartbeat drives the wedge deeper. He won’t forget what I said about Ally being mine. Won’t forgive the claim I tried to make.
“I’m not going to apologize for loving her, but I know I fucked up. I’ll lock it down.”
“You better.” He points vaguely in the direction of Charlie team’s bullpen. “And you’ve got apologies to make. The shit you said to Blake? To Carter?” Hank shakes his head. “Fix it. As for us, Allyneedsboth of us. You can’t give her what she needs. You’re notenoughfor that.”
SIXTEEN
Ghosts and Echoes
HANK
I guidemy SUV down the coastal highway toward home. Gabe sits in the passenger seat, jaw clenched, staring out at the Pacific like it holds answers. The silence between us carries weight—dense, suffocating, broken only by the low rumble of the engine and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.
Ethan looked between us in the gymnasium, blood on our faces and murder in our eyes, and made the call. “Go home. Both of you. Wait for instructions.”
Not a suggestion. An order from someone who’s seen too many partnerships fracture under pressure.
I downshift as we approach the turnoff to our cliffside road. The motion sends a sharp pain through my ribs where Gabe landed solid hits. Good. The physical discomfort helps me focus and keeps my rage under control.
“You’re favoring your left side,” Gabe observes, his first words in twenty minutes.
“You hit like a sledgehammer when you’re pissed off.”
“Yeah, well. You fight dirty when you’re angry.”
The admission hangs between us. Neither apology nor accusation. Just a statement.
Our home comes into view—glass and steel perched on the cliff’s edge, designed for privacy and defensibility. Usually, the sight of it settles something in my chest.
Home. Sanctuary.
The place where Ally learned to trust us completely.
Today, it feels like a mausoleum.
I park, engine ticking as it cools. Neither of us moves to get out.
“She’s everywhere in there,” Gabe says quietly.
