Page 41 of Thunder's Reckoning

But tonight, the memory blurred against something else—Zeke’s hands on my arms earlier, firm but careful, steadying me instead of trapping me. Warmth instead of cold. Space instead of suffocation.

My chest ached at the difference. At how foreign it felt.

I pressed my forehead harder into my knees, trying to stop the shaking.

Zeke’s voice rose in my mind, gravel and steady as stone:You got me now, Sable. Don’t ever forget it.

I’d learned not to believe in words. Not the first time. Not the tenth. Only action ever told the truth.

But still… I clung to his voice like a rope in the dark. Because for the first time in years, part of me wanted to believe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE HALLWAY DOWNinto The Pit was familiar.Groundin’. My boots echoed off the concrete as I took the narrow stairwell past the boiler room, into the back corridor that led to the club.

Things felt different tonight though. One breath I’d been upstairs, helpin’ kids brush teeth and hearin’ a little girl giggle when her brother made motorcycle noises. Next breath I was down here, where grown men gambled away rent money and pride.

A steel door with a black spade spray-painted on it opened onto the main floor. Dim lights. Low ceilings. Smoke hangin’ thick. Poker tables sat like altars under yellow bulbs, men leanin’ in close like sinners at confession, prayin’ the next card would save their souls.

At blackjack, a tall man in a long coat cursed the dealer in Spanish, slammin’ chips down hard enough to shake the felt. At the bar, two regulars from upstate were in a heated argument over a debt neither one could pay, their voices just loud enough to draw a side-eye from Horse. He didn’t move—yet. He didn’t have to.

I moved through it easy. Belonged here. Always did. The Pit felt like mine, and hell if I didn’t love the hum of it.

Mystic stood in front of the cash cage, arms crossed, face unreadable as ever under that scarred jaw. He hadn’t been around much with all the shit goin’ down with Zeynep, and him trustin’ me to keep this place in line, it meant somethin’.

He spotted me, gave a short nod. “Couple from Summerville tried to use fake chips.”

“Horse take care of it?”

“Yeah. One ran. The other’s learnin’ what it costs to be stupid.” His eyes flicked over me. “You good? Not like you to be late.”

“Yeah.” My voice came out rougher than I meant. “She finally opened up tonight. About what she’s runnin’ from. Didn’t wanna leave her alone right after that.”

Mystic’s brow lifted. “That bad?”

I gave him a look that said enough. “Fuckin’ nightmare. You’ll hear it at Church.”

“Uh huh.” He stepped aside as a runner slid a tray of cash through the cage. “Tunnel’s clear. Got a few new faces, but all vouched. Gave the signal already.”

I nodded, though my head wasn’t really here.

Behind the restrooms, behind a wall that looked like busted maintenance access, was the real secret—the tunnel. Started behind the old tool shed out on club property. Looked like a path to nowhere until you knew the steps. Trapdoor under a rusted-out fridge dropped into a narrow concrete tunnel, no cams, no lights. Just a red line painted on the floor so drunk patrons didn’t get lost in the dark. Led straight here, no surface traffic, no ties.

Exactly how Devil liked it.

Still, somethin’ in my gut wasn’t sittin’ right. Couldn’t name it. Maybe the clatter of chips sounded too damn loud. Maybe it was the way I kept glancin’ toward the stairs, waitin’ for a scream I prayed I wouldn’t hear.

I turned toward Mystic. “You gonna be around a while?”

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Why? You think she’s gonna bolt?”

“Nah.” I shook my head. “But she’s relivin’ shit. I saw it in her eyes.”

“You’re in deep already,” he muttered.

I grinned sideways. “Ain’t you one to talk?”

He snorted, waved me off, and shifted back to work. But I didn’t move right away. Just stood there, eyes sweepin’ the floor. Tonight I just wasn’t feelin’ this place.