20. Colt

20

COLT

I pace the length of our trailer, my hands clenching and unclenching as the rage burns through my veins. Nash sits at the small dining table, his silence more dangerous than any outburst could be. The cold calculation in his eyes mirrors the ice in my chest.

“They touched her.” My voice comes out rough. “They hurt our girl.”

Nash’s fingers drum against the table surface. “We’ll make them wish they’d never laid eyes on her.”

I stop pacing and brace my hands on the counter, trying to contain the violent urges coursing through me. The thought of those monsters putting their hands on Flora, hurting her when she was just sixteen... My knuckles turn white from gripping the counter’s edge.

“It needs to look like an accident,” Nash says, his tone measured but deadly. “We can’t have this traced back to the carnival, back to her.”

I nod, understanding the necessity for discretion even as every fiber of my being screams to hunt them down right now. “They’ll be watching her. Waiting for another chance.”

“Then we’ll give them one.” Nash stands, moving to stand beside me. His presence steadies my rage into something more focused. “We let them think they have an opening. Draw them out.”

“And then?”

Nash’s eyes meet mine. “Then we show them what happens to anyone who dares hurt what’s ours.”

I straighten, a cold smile spreading across my face. “We make sure they never hurt another girl again.”

“Never,” Nash agrees, his hand gripping my shoulder. “We protect our own, Colt. And Flora is ours to protect now.”

We stand there in silent agreement, two predators planning the demise of those who dared harm our girl. The rage still burns, but now it has a purpose. Direction. Those bastards won’t know what hit them.

“Phoenix could track them,” I say, moving to grab my phone from the counter. “He’s got ways of monitoring their movements, their messages.”

Nash nods, his expression darkening. “He owes me a favor anyway. And he’s got all those surveillance toys he never gets to use.”

I pull up Phoenix’s contact and hit dial. He answers on the second ring, his voice groggy. “This better be important. I was in the middle of coding.”

“Need your help, man. We have two targets we need to monitor. Tommy and Jake Lowley.” I grip the phone tighter. “They’re a threat to Flora.”

“Who are they to her?” Phoenix asks.

I clear my throat. “Flora’s foster brothers. And they abused her.”

There’s a pause, followed by the sound of typing. Phoenix’s tone shifts from irritated to serious. “Give me everything you’ve got on them. Phone numbers, social media, addresses.”

Nash leans closer to the phone. “We need to know their movements, any messages about Flora or the carnival. They’re planning something.”

“Consider it done,” Phoenix says. “I’ll set up alerts for any communication between them, track their phones, monitor their social media. If they sneeze in Flora’s direction, you’ll know about it.”

“Thanks, Phoenix.” I share a look with Nash. “We owe you.”

“No, you don’t. Nobody messes with our family.” More typing sounds come through the line. “I’ll have everything set up within the hour. Just... whatever you’re planning, be careful.”

“Aways are,” Nash says firmly.

“Right. I’ll text you when I’ve got the surveillance running.” Phoenix pauses. “And Colt? Make them regret ever touching her.”

“Count on it,” I reply, ending the call.

I watch Nash stare at his phone, waiting for Phoenix’s updates. Something’s off about him—it has been since Flora told us about her past. The tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw keeps clenching.

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “You’ve been quiet since last night.”

Nash’s fingers are still on his phone screen. He doesn’t look up, but I catch the slight tremor in his hand before he sets the device down.

“Just brings up old ghosts,” he says, his voice rough.

I freeze. In all our years together, Nash has never mentioned anything about his past. Not once. He’s always been a closed book, deflecting questions with practiced ease or changing the subject entirely.

“You want to talk about it?” I offer, careful to keep my tone neutral. One wrong move and he’ll shut down completely.

Nash runs a hand through his hair, still not meeting my eyes. “The foster system’s full of monsters.”

The implication hits me like a punch to the gut. My hands curl into fists at my sides, rage building for a new reason.

“Nash...” I start, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp. “It was a long time ago. I dealt with it.”

“Did you?”

Finally, he looks up at me, and the raw pain in his eyes makes my chest ache. “Had to. Nobody else was going to.”

I want to reach for him and offer comfort, but I know he’s not ready. Instead, I lean against the counter, giving him space while letting him know I’m here.

“You’re not alone anymore,” I tell him quietly. “You know that, right?”

Nash stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The walls I’ve seen glimpses behind snap back into place, his expression hardening into that familiar mask of control.

“I need some air.” He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door, movements sharp and precise.

I know better than to push. In all our years together, I’ve learned when Nash needs space. The tightness around his eyes and the rigid set of his shoulders are warnings I’ve memorized.

“I’ll be here,” I say simply, giving him the out he needs.

He pauses at the door, one hand on the handle. For a moment, I think he might turn back, might let me in just a fraction more. But then his shoulders straighten, and without another word, he disappears.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone. I drag a hand down my face, fighting the urge to follow him. Nash will talk when he’s ready—if he’s ever ready. Pushing him now would only drive him further away.

Still, the glimpse of vulnerability I saw in his eyes haunts me. All these years, I never knew about his abuse. I knew he’d had a shitty childhood bouncing from foster home to foster home, but he never wanted to talk about it.

I sink onto the couch, staring at the door he just walked through. How many nights has he sat here, carrying these secrets alone?