Page 16 of Rebel
“Jace,” he breathed.
His best friend looked wrecked—leaning heavily against the door frame, face bruised and split, with one eye swollen shut. His clothing looked like rags with dried blood crusted on his shirt from his temple. He would’ve hit the ground if Bolt hadn’t caught him.
“Jesus, brother,” Bolt muttered, hauling him inside, lowering him onto the sofa while Rebel scrambled for towels and ice. “What the hell did you walk into?”
Rebel hurried back to Bolt and handed him the supplies that he had asked her for. “Who did this to you, Jace?” she sobbed. He hated that she had to see her little brother this way. Bolt knew how strong and capable she was, but this was just too much for anyone to have to endure.
“Dead Rabbits,” Jace rasped, voice raw, but his eyes cut straight to Rebel. Relief burned through the pain there. “I had to make sure you were okay.”
Bolt stepped back, letting Rebel press a cloth to her brother’s split lip, her hands shaking even as she whispered, “I’m fine. You’re the one bleeding all over the damn floor.”
And despite it all, Jace smiled. He was weak, broken, but real. “That’s my job, sis. Always has been.”
Bolt’s chest tightened as he watched the two of them together. It was the first time he had seen them in the same room. He caught Rebel’s gaze across Jace’s battered form, and the weight of everything unsaid pressed between them. They hadn’t told him. Not about Rebel’s past. Not about what she and Bolt had become. And Bolt knew this wasn’t the moment to drop that truth on him.
The next few days blurred together. Bolt could tell that Jace wanted to run and dive back into the fight, but he was too torn up to move more than a few feet. Bolt kept him grounded, refusing to let him self-destruct. Rebel hovered close, her fierce love and guilt twisting into every word she spoke to her brother. Bolt saw all her worries and carried them quietly, because that was what he did.
It was the coldest morning of the week when the news was delivered via a phone call from their boss. The FBI had raidedthe Dead Rabbits’ stronghold. Warehouses were ripped apart. Guns, drugs, and men were dragged out in chains. Names that had been shadows over all of them were suddenly locked behind bars. But best of all—those women who had endured hell were back home with their families. They had brought down the trafficking ring—at least for now. They were all aware that organizations like the Dead Rabbits were too large and far-reaching to be destroyed by just one FBI raid. But for the first time in too damn long, Bolt saw Rebel breathe without there being a weight on her chest.
Later, Jace sat on the porch—his bruises starting to fade. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, and for the first time in a long time, Bolt thought that his friend almost looked at peace. “Maybe we finally got a shot at putting this whole mess behind us,” he said, his voice low.
Bolt stood behind Rebel, his hand finding hers, careful to hide their connection from Jace. She leaned into him like she belonged there. He squeezed her fingers, staring past Jace at the stretch of gray sky, and for the first time, he almost let himself believe it.
Bolt leaned against the counter, watching Rebel carry two mugs of coffee out onto the porch where Jace sat bundled up. He had gotten color back in his cheeks these past few days, but he was still running on fumes, his body mending from the beating he had gotten from the Dead Rabbits just weeks earlier. Bolt had seen men come back from worse, but seeing Jace broken down like that twisted something ugly in his gut.
Rebel was good with him, though. Better than Bolt could ever be. She had that softness that Jace seemed to need. Bolt walkedinto the kitchen and rinsed out his own mug, listening to their voices through the screen. He heard Jace’s quiet laugh, then his tone shift—lower, probing.
“You two seem close,” Jace all but whispered. Bolt’s shoulders stiffened. He set the mug down harder than he meant to, ceramic clinking against the sink.
Rebel answered quickly, her voice too light. “We’ve been stuck here together for two months. Close kind of comes with the territory.” Her explanation didn’t seem to convince Jace. Bolt could feel the weight of the silence between the two of them, like a trigger half-pulled. He finished washing the few dishes in the sink and pushed through the screen door to step out onto the porch, trying to be casual.
Jace looked right at him. Bolt gave him a nod, then dropped into the chair beside Rebel, letting his arm fall along the back of hers. He didn’t pull her in, didn’t press the point—but he didn’t move away either. He wasn’t going to act ashamed of what was between them. Jace’s eyes flicked to his arm that hung around Rebel’s shoulder. His jaw tensed.
“Uh-huh,” Jace muttered finally, setting his mug down with a thud. “Guess we’ll have to talk about that later.” He nodded at Bolt’s arm around his sister’s shoulders.
Bolt met his stare without flinching. If Jace wanted that talk, then fine. He’d take it head-on. But beneath the steel in his chest, there was a pulse of dread. Because Jace wasn’t just his brother-in-arms—he was Rebel’s blood. And Bolt had crossed a line he couldn’t uncross.
Later that night, after Jace had turned in early, Bolt sat in bed with his elbows on his knees, staring off into the dark. The little cabin barely had room for him and Rebel, so Jace had to make do with the sofa, not that his friend seemed to mind. Rebel was in the shower, and he could hear her humming to herself through the thin walls, like none of the same weight that he wasfeeling was pressing down on her, and he was happy that was the case. But Bolt felt it. He felt the way Jace’s eyes had cut into him on that porch, sharp as any blade, as he started to figure out that he and Rebel were together. Bolt had betrayed him, and from the way Jace looked at him, he knew the truth.
It wasn’t just suspicion, and when Jace finally worked up the nerve to ask him about him and Rebel, he wasn’t going to lie to him. He might not share all the details. He would probably keep how many nights Bolt had lost himself in Rebel’s arms to himself. But he’d have to tell Jace something because he damn sure knew that something was up. And the worst part wasn’t the thought of Jace coming at him—it was the thought of losing both of them if this blew up, and that would kill him. Because Bolt could take a fistfight, and he could take Jace’s rage. What he couldn’t take was Rebel looking at him like he’d betrayed her trust. That would gut him.
He raked a hand through his hair, teeth grinding as he thought of all the shit that he and Jace had been through. Wars fought side by side. Blood spilled. Secrets kept. And here he was, hiding something bigger than any of it.
Rebel padded barefoot into the room with her hair damp, while wearing one of his shirts that swallowed her whole. She smiled when she saw him, like none of the storms around them mattered. Like the only thing in the world was the two of them. Bolt’s chest tightened. God, he was in too deep. He pulled her into his lap, burying his face against her throat, breathing her in like he needed her to breathe at all. And as her arms curled around him, soft and sure, he thought about Jace asleep out on the sofa in the family room, and he knew that the clock was ticking. Sooner or later, Jace’s promise to discuss what was going on between him and Rebel was going to come due. And Bolt wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.
Bolt knew it was coming before the words left Jace’s mouth. He’d felt it building for days—the way Jace’s eyes cut sharper as he watched him with Rebel. The way his jaw stayed clenched when Rebel lingered too long by Bolt’s side. Tonight, though, there was no mistaking the fire in her brother’s stare.
They were out behind the cabin, smoke from Bolt’s cigarette curling into the cold Minnesota air. Jace stood with his arms crossed, his face still bruised in patches, but his voice was steady when he finally said it.
“You’re fucking my sister, aren’t you?” he asked. The words hit harder than a fist, and it took everything in Bolt to remain standing.
Bolt exhaled slowly and ground the cigarette out beneath his boot. “You want me to lie to you, or would you like the truth?”
“Try me,” Jace snapped.
Bolt didn’t lie to him. He couldn’t. He just stood there, arms loose at his sides, waiting for the hit he knew was coming. And it did. Jace swung, and his fist connected with Bolt’s jaw, snapping his head back. Bolt stumbled a step, tasted blood, then straightened. He didn’t swing back.
“You done?” Bolt asked, voice low.
