Brock's hand gripped Harper's hip, fingers pressing hard enough to leave shadows of bruises he'd apologize for tomorrow—marks she'd trace later and refuse to let him regret. He pulled her into him with each deliberate thrust, their rhythm as instinctive as breathing, as new as the first time. The slide of her body against his was devastating, the friction and heat making his head spin. His other hand cradled the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair, holding her face against the curve of his throat where her breath came hot and ragged.
Every sound she made—those tiny, desperate whimpers, the broken moans she couldn't swallow—was muffled against his skin. He felt them vibrate through him, felt the way her lips parted at his pulse, her teeth grazing just enough to make his chest tighten with something that burned beyond the physical.
"Harper," he breathed, her name a prayer.
She answered with a sound that was barely human, just need distilled to voice. Her thighs trembled around his hips, heels digging into his back as she tried to pull him closer though there was no space left between them. She met him motion for motion, chasing something just beyond reach, the roll of her hips changing his rhythm until stars burst behind his eyes.
Her nails dragged down his shoulders, sharp enough to sting. He welcomed the pain—it grounded him, tethered him. The room was thick with heat and sweat; the sheets twisted and damp beneath them. All he could hear was their breathing and the soft sounds of skin on skin, the creak of the frame beneath them, the pulse of her heartbeat matching his own.
He shifted, angled just right, and her gasp tore the air open. Her whole body went taut, then began to quake.
"Brock—please, I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he rasped. "I've got you."
He felt every tremor that rolled through her, every pulse that clenched around him. She was so close he could taste it—the way her cries climbed, the way her fingers dug deeper. He pulled her tight against him, grinding deeper, his other hand still tangled in her hair, grounding her.
"That's it," he murmured against her temple, tightening his grip in her hair. "Right there."
She broke.
He felt it in every cell—the way she went impossibly tight, the pulsing waves dragging him with her. Her muffled cry vibrated against his throat as she arched beneath him, nails clawing, legs locked around his waist.
He tried to hold on, but watching her come apart—feeling her do it—was too much. His control slipped, rhythm faltered, and the pleasure coiled low in his spine until it tore through him in a blinding rush. His groan rumbled deep as he buried himself in her again and again until everything gave way and the world went silent but for the sound of her breath against his neck.
When it was over, he collapsed against her, chest heaving, every muscle gone slack. His face pressed into her hair; his heartbeat thundered between them. For a long time neither moved. Her chest rose and fell beneath him, the rhythm uneven but slowing. Little tremors still rippled through her, each one tugging another shiver from him.
"Too heavy," Harper whispered, her voice frayed.
"Sorry," he muttered, forcing his body to move. He rolled them onto their sides without letting go, limbs tangled, still joined, unwilling to break the last connection.
When she tipped her head back, her face was flushed and undone, hair plastered to her cheeks, lips parted as she caught her breath. He thought she'd never looked more beautiful.
He framed her face in his hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and smiled. "Hi."
Her answering smile was hazy, tender. "Hi."
He kissed her—slow, deep, reverent. It wasn't the frantic kind of before but the quiet after: the kiss that meant survival. When he drew back, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.
"I love you," he whispered, voice wrecked. "God, I love you so much."
Her palm rested over his heart, her smile soft. "I love you too."
They lay there, breathing each other's air, heartbeats slowly syncing. His hand traced idle patterns along her hip and ribs; hers moved lazily across his chest. Eventually he shifted, slipping free. She made a small, drowsy noise of protest before he pulled her close again, her body curling into his, leg hooked over his hip. He drew the sheet over them both, cocooning them.
"Okay?" he murmured into her hair.
"Mmm. Perfect. You're perfect."
"Not even close," he said, brushing a kiss into her hair, breathing her in—sweat, warmth, the faint vanilla of her shampoo. "But I'm yours."
"Mine," she sighed, already drifting.
He stroked her spine until her body went loose and heavy in his arms. Her breathing steadied, soft and deep, and he lay there listening to it, each exhale easing something in him.
This—this—was everything. Not the fever of it, but the stillness after. The trust. The way she fit against him like she'd been made for the space he'd once thought empty. The quiet proof that even here, after everything, they were still whole.
He pressed a final kiss to her hair and let himself drift off with her safe against his heart.
─•────
The Suburban's heater hissed and coughed—too warm at Harper's knees, a cold draft toward her face—but the heat she'd carried from the morning sat under her clothes like a small, private fire. She watched the trees smear past the window, frost filigree spidering across the glass, breath fogging in short white puffs. Mason leaned into the seat beside her, shoulders tense, fingers drumming a nervous code against his thigh. Brock kept his hands light on the wheel, shoulders a steady slab of muscle beneath his jacket; Knuckles rode shotgun, one boot braced against the dash, thumb beating the same slow rhythm. Onyx and Kier murmured in the middle row—round counts, routes, who'd watch which egress—voices low enough not to pull at the quiet.
No one had anything else to say. The silence felt like a held breath.
"How far out?" Mason asked finally.
"Five minutes. Maybe less," Brock said, flat as ice.
They rolled off the main road. The pines opened to ragged scrub and the sky widened; the air tasted like metal and winter. Snow lay rucked in the ditches, salt crusted along the shoulders, and every bump threw a thin rain of grit against the Suburban's belly. Harper flexed her fingers against the pistol at her hip—habit, not fear—and felt Brock's eyes find hers in the rearview, the same steady check that had asked, You good? She nodded. Good enough.
"Could still be a setup," Mason said, the thought loose now.
"Then we walk out the same way we walk in," Knuckles said. "Together."
The quarry yawned like a wound cut clean from the earth, but it was daylight that showed its truth: four in the afternoon, the sun low and pale, scouring detail until nothing hid. Cranes leaned like tired teeth, rust freckled the metal, and the ice at the bottom bit back the light in quick, cold flashes. No vehicles marked the approach. No figures moved on the ridgeline.
Brock downshifted and eased the Suburban to a stop—fifty yards from the gate, angled so they could see the access road and the line of the pit. The engine idled. The heater pushed a weak warmth into the cabin. Outside, the wind ate sound.
Knuckles opened his door first. The cold hit them like a wall—air so sharp it made Harper's eyes water. Doors thudded; boots hit gravel; breath steamed in quick, white bursts. They spilled out and formed up fast, close to the vehicle: Knuckles up front, Brock at his shoulder, Onyx and Kier bracketing them, Mason and Harper at the rear, hands hovering near holsters. No one pushed for the gate. They stayed planted—shoulder to shoulder—watching the access road from the cover of the Suburban's shadow.
"Keep your heads," Brock murmured.
For a long while, there was nothing but wind and the hollow echo of the pit. Then the first engine came—a low chew of diesel from the road they'd just taken. Harper stood straighter without meaning to; the sound made the quiet feel wrong.
A second motor answered farther back, then a third, each one paced the same slow, deliberate way. Kier's hand dropped to his knee; he didn't reach for a weapon, just let the movement say what his face wouldn't. "More than one," he said, barely audible, and the word threaded through the group like a small, sharp warning. The spacing of the engines told them everything: this wasn't coincidence. Three trucks, rolling the lane they'd come from, keeping distance between them like animals that knew their footing.
Brock's voice was flat when he spoke, small and level enough for only them. "They don't trust us any more than we trust them. Be ready because they're being cautious."
Knuckles didn't waste words. He moved through the checklist without show: fingers brushing the holster straps, shoulders squaring. "Keep weapons strapped but ready. Don't be the first to reach for it unless they give us reason." His tone left no room for argument—practical, blunt.
The three pickups crested the rise like lumps of shadow, their boxy profiles cutting the pale afternoon into harder shapes; metal grills flashed a sleet-bright edge and the caps of their beds hunched like waiting beasts. They eased into the lane in single file, tires whispering on gravel, engines dropping to a patient idle that sounded like restraint — low, reluctant breathing that somehow made the hollow feel smaller. Two people rode in each cab: shoulders hunched into the collars of heavy coats, beanies pulled low, hands visible on the wheels as if afraid to tuck them away; a cigarette died in one pocket with a faint, stubborn ember. They rolled to a stop a short distance from the Suburban, close enough to read the silhouettes but far enough to hide faces, and waited. Nobody climbed out. Nobody made a quick move.
Harper felt the air contract around them, a thin pressure settling in her chest, and she tightened with it — fingers brushing the pistol at her hip though she kept her hand loose. The crew drew inward, a single shape of shoulders and wool: closer ranks, shoulders locked, breath puffing the same grey in front of their faces. The pickups idled, a new weather in the pit — diesel and cold and that careful patience that comes with people who are wearing caution like armor.
A passenger door eased open. Gage stepped out slow, one palm flat against the truck's roof, the other lifted and open where they could see it—empty. He moved with the economy of someone used to being watched: deliberate, measured. The holster at his hip showed through the gap of his coat; it was there, obvious, but his hands were empty and visible the whole time he took in their line like he was cataloguing their faces without flinching.
"Good to see you made the call," he called, voice carrying in the pit—dry, almost polite. He didn't hurry forward. He stood on the truck step and watched them for a long, slow beat, eyes passing over boots and jackets and the holsters at their hips, fingers hovering near triggers. When he spoke again there was none of the salesman's charm left, just blunt accounting. "Look—I know you don't trust us. Not yet. I don't expect you to. Hell, I wouldn't either."
He hooked a thumb behind him toward the other pickups. "We're gonna do something stupid to prove it. My crew's gonna step out one by one—hands where you can see 'em—and put their pieces on the hoods. Once we're unarmed, you do the same. No tricks. You want to talk without guns between us? That's how we do it. Deal?"
Brock's answer came after a long moment of stillness. "Deal."
Gage's chin dipped once, a signal more than a nod. He made the motion slow enough for everyone to read—hand dropping to the holster at his hip, fingers curling around the grip, then easing the pistol free and setting it on the truck's hood with a hollow metallic clack. His palms went back up, open.
One by one, the other doors opened. Hinges groaned. Boots hit gravel. The Vultures moved with the same cautious rhythm—no rush, no swagger—each man drawing his weapon slow, setting it down where it caught the last of the light. Six figures total, spaced evenly between the trucks, unarmed but far from relaxed. Their coats shifted in the wind; a few wore scarves pulled up high, faces half-hidden. Diesel hung faint in the air, mixing with the mineral cold.
Gage stepped down from the running board and came forward a few paces, stopping where the distance still felt safe. His breath fogged out once, slow and even. "Your turn," he said.
Brock's eyes flicked back toward his crew. A small nod—nothing showy, just enough.
Knuckles moved first, unbuckling his holster with a faint snap and laying his pistol on the Suburban's hood. Onyx followed, then Kier, Mason. Each weapon went down the same way—careful, deliberate, the sound of metal on metal carrying thin in the cold. Harper hesitated only a breath before drawing hers, the weight familiar in her palm, and setting it beside the others. The row of guns looked stark against the dark paint, a line of trust that felt anything but safe.
Brock went last. He slid his own weapon free, laid it down, and stepped back beside them, hands visible, stance squared toward the trucks. The space between both groups felt narrower now, filled with the sound of engines cooling and the wind threading through steel.
The air between them stayed stretched tight, humming with quiet engine ticks and the scrape of wind. For a moment it seemed like Gage would keep the lead—then movement caught Harper's eye near the second truck.
One of the men there stepped forward. Taller than the rest, shoulders filling the space like a drawn line, his gloved hands empty but steady. He didn't bother to glance at the weapons laid out on the hoods; authority came off him in the way he moved—measured, sure, like he'd already taken the measure of everyone present.
He crossed the short distance to stand beside Gage, eyes sweeping Brock's crew the way soldiers read terrain—checking spacing, posture, who watched whose hands. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The small shift in Gage's stance said enough.
"This," Gage said, nodding toward him, "is Calder."
The name cut through the cold air like a rank, and the line of Vultures straightened before he'd said a word. Calder's gaze found Brock first, then Knuckles, eyes narrowing slightly as recognition clicked into place.
"Brock Lawson," he said. "And Knuckles." He didn't sound surprised—more like a man confirming a rumor he'd already believed. "Syndicate golden boys once upon a time. Didn't think I'd see either of you off their leash."
Knuckles didn't move. "Guess the leash broke."
"I heard." Calder's tone held no judgment, just assessment. "Dock fire said as much. Half the city's still talking about it." His attention lingered on Brock, like he was measuring what kind of man lights that fuse and keeps walking. "Gage filled me in. You made a choice most people don't come back from."
Brock's reply came flat. "We're not looking to."
Calder's eyes shifted, landing on her. Harper felt her shoulders lift a fraction, a reflex before she could stop it. He watched her the way men did when they were matching a story to a face—long enough to make her pulse tick, not long enough to be a threat.
"You a Voss?" he asked.
She glanced at Brock, then back at him. "Yeah."
The corner of Calder's mouth twitched, something caught between interest and recognition. "Heard rumors," he said. "Voss' kid got scooped by the Syndicate after the Vipers went under. Didn't figure there was truth in it." His gaze moved over the group once more before settling back on her. "Guess there is."
Brock's voice cut in before Calder could say more. "Leave it," he said, quiet but hard enough to carry. "We're not here to trade stories."
Calder's gaze lingered on him for a second, reading the line he wasn't supposed to cross. Then he gave a small nod—acknowledging it, not apologizing. He adjusted his stance slightly, enough to draw a sliver of space between himself and Gage. "Then let's keep it business," he said. "You've met Gage." He angled his chin toward the man beside him, then motioned down the line to the others.
He gestured to the man nearest the truck, tall and wiry with a hood drawn up tight. "That's Morrow."
Next, to the left, a stockier figure with a buzz cut and a scar running from his jaw to his collar. "Hale."
Beside him, a younger man with a shaved head and cold eyes that didn't seem to blink enough. "Rook."
And last, a woman half a step behind the others, coat zipped to her throat, dark hair loose around her face despite the wind. "Vera."
Harper's gaze caught on the woman—dark eyes, calm stance, something steady beneath the surface noise of the standoff. For a moment, neither of them looked away. Women were rare in this game; rarer still to see one standing this solid among men built like walls. Vera's lips lifted in a small, easy smile that asked for nothing—and Harper felt her own shoulders ease, a fraction of the tension bleeding off without permission.
Brock gave a short nod toward his crew. "You already know Knuckles," he said, then shifted his hand slightly to the right. "Onyx. Kier. Mason." His palm dropped last to Harper, resting at her shoulder before falling away. "Harper."
He didn't bother with more. No surnames, no ranks—just names, offered like an even trade for Calder's list. The Vultures watched in silence, eyes flicking over each face as if fixing them to memory. The air between the two lines stayed tight but less brittle now, something closer to wary respect than threat.
Calder shifted his weight, boots grinding lightly on the gravel. "Look," he said. "I don't know what went down to make you break from the Syndicate—and it's not my business to ask. What matters is that you did." His gaze moved across their line, sharp but steady. "Anything that knocks those bastards down a few pegs is good for this city. You've done more damage in a few weeks than most crews manage in a year."
He paused, scanning the pit beyond them, as if weighing the scale of the war they were all caught in. "I know what they did to the Vipers. What they're still doing to the Maw. But from what I hear, the six of you cutting loose has thrown a wrench in their machine. Stalled them. Maybe even scared them."
He looked back at Brock, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You probably don't see it yet—but the city's paying attention. Syndicate doesn't bleed easy, and you made them bleed."
Brock's jaw worked as Calder spoke, the words settling somewhere between truth and exhaustion. He let the silence stretch before answering, his voice low, rough from cold and long nights.
"We ran off internal intel," he said finally. "Had people feeding us routes, rotations, everything we needed to stay one step ahead." His eyes stayed on Calder, but something in them dulled at the edges. "That intel's gone now."
Knuckles shifted his stance, impatience edging through the quiet. "Let's stop beating around the bush," he said. "You approached us. You called this meeting. Let's talk."
Calder let out a low chuckle, more breath than sound. "Fair enough." He adjusted the line of his coat against the wind. "Look—we all know what the Syndicate is. A war machine that eats crews like ours for breakfast. We're not stupid enough to think we can take that on, and I don't get the feeling you're chasing a full-scale war either."
He nodded toward the Suburban, then the weapons still resting on its hood. "But from where we're standing, you're in their crosshairs. You're hitting their pockets, their pride. That kind of thing doesn't fade."
Calder's tone stayed even, pragmatic. "We're not signing up to fight your fights. But we can respect what you're doing. The last thing either of us needs in this city is more enemies."
Brock's eyes narrowed. "So what is it you're offering, exactly?"
Calder studied him, then the rest of the crew—measured, not intrusive. "I don't know the rest of your team, Brock," he said. "But you and Knuckles? Everyone in this city knows those names. Losing the two of you was a massive hit for the Syndicate." His gaze drifted down the line, taking in Onyx, Kier, Mason, Harper. "And I'd wager you didn't walk without taking the best with you."
Knuckles shifted, jaw tightening. "Look, Calder—we're not looking to join another group right now."
Calder gave a small nod, no offense taken. "Didn't expect you to. You were commanders; I get it. You don't take orders anymore. I'm not here to hand them out."
He let the wind carry a few seconds of silence before going on. "We're not looking to jump in your war. But the Syndicate's been running this city unchecked for too damn long, and watching them bleed a little doesn't hurt my feelings. You keep making noise, we can make sure it carries—supplies, a place to lie low, a phone that doesn't trace back. Whatever keeps you in the game."
His gaze held steady on Brock's. "We're not trying to be part of your crew. We just figure it's smart to back the people giving the Syndicate headaches."
Knuckles' eyes cut to Brock's, a flicker of silent conversation passing between them—calculation, suspicion, the quiet understanding that nothing in this city came free. Brock gave a small nod before speaking.
"What's the catch?"
Calder's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "There's always one, huh?" He rolled his shoulders against the cold, gaze steady. "We're not asking for your payroll or your loyalty. Just the weight of your name when it counts."
He let the words settle, then continued. "If the Syndicate ever decides we're worth their time, or some bottom-feeder crew starts sniffing around, it helps to know there's someone out there they'd rather not piss off. You don't have to swing for us—but sometimes just knowing you might is enough to keep the wolves back."
Calder's tone stayed calm, practical. "That's it. You keep doing what you're doing, we stay out of your way, and if things ever tilt our direction, you give a nod. Doesn't cost you much, and it keeps both of us breathing."
Brock let the quiet stretch. The wind shifted, carrying grit across the gravel, ticking against the Suburban's hood. His jaw flexed once.
"That sounds simple," he said finally. "But nothing in this city ever is."
Calder didn't blink. "Doesn't have to be complicated to work."
Knuckles exhaled through his nose, steam ghosting in the cold. "You're saying mutual ghosts," he said. "You don't step on our toes, we don't step on yours. But if somebody comes sniffing around either side, we make sure they know who they're poking."
"Something like that," Calder said.
Knuckles' eyes flicked toward Brock. "Could do worse."
Brock gave a slow nod, still measuring Calder the way he would a half-broken weapon—testing for the fault line that would give under pressure. "Alright," he said at last. "We'll call it what it is—an understanding. No paperwork. No handshake pictures. You run your road, we'll run ours. But if things ever start burning your way, you get one call."
Calder's mouth curved, this time closer to a smile. "That's all we need."
He reached inside his coat—slow, deliberate, his other hand still visible—and pulled out a small black flip phone. He didn't step forward. Instead, he held it up at a distance, then crouched and set it on the gravel halfway between them, the gesture clean and neutral.
"One number saved," he said. "You call, I answer."
Brock's gaze stayed locked on him a second longer before he nodded toward Kier. "Grab it."
Kier moved—unhurried, measured—crossing just far enough to reach the phone. He scooped it off the gravel and it vanished into his coat pocket as he stepped back to the Suburban.
Calder gave one final nod, then turned slightly, signaling to his crew. "We'll leave you your space." He glanced back once. "You ever need ours, you know how to reach it."
The Vultures peeled back slow, boots crunching on frost. One by one they grabbed their weapons and climbed into their trucks, doors thudding shut, engines rumbling to life. Headlights swung across the quarry walls—white flares that cut the pit into bone and shadow—before the convoy rolled off the ridge, shrinking to three red dots in the dusk.
Wind filled the space they left behind, hollow and cold.
No one spoke. For a moment there was only the sound of exhaust fading, the quiet click of metal cooling on the Suburban's hood. Brock's eyes tracked the departing lights until they vanished into the tree line. Then he reached out, reclaimed his weapon, and slid it back into its holster.
"Pack it up," he said.
Knuckles moved first, then the others—wordless, methodical, like a muscle memory they'd lived too long to break. Harper followed last, the frost crunching beneath her boots, her breath a pale ghost in the dim.
When the final gun was stowed, Brock gave one last look toward the empty road. Whatever had just happened here—whatever line they'd drawn—it was done for now.
He turned for the driver's side. The door shut on the wind.