My gut twists. I hate this. Every instinct in me says stay the hell away from Dante Cross. I’m too close to it. But I know how to crack a man open from the inside, and we need the truth. If he’s connected to anyone hurting our girls, I’ll cut him down myself.
“Fine,” I say. What else can I do?
“Church adjourned,” Quinn says.
Chairs scrape back, the weight of what we learned dragging heavier than the sound of boots on the old floor. Nobody lingers tonight. They peel off in twos and threes, some heading for the bar, others outside for a smoke. Voices drop to murmurs, and even those die quickly.
I don’t say a word. Just rise from my chair, run a hand over the scarred steel grip one last time, and make my way down the narrow hall. The clubhouse’s quiet, the hum of the fridge in the kitchen the only sound following me.
I walk past the locked storeroom, past the framed photos of rides and rallies lining the wall. Up the creaking stairs, each step echoing in the emptiness until I hit the second floor landing. I head toward my room at the end of the hall pausing momentarily at the door to the room Amber was given for the time being. I press my palm flat against it and slowly crack it open. I’m greeted by silence. The kind of silence that feels heavy like it’s daring something to break it.
Amber’s tucked into the bed, covers pulled tight around her. Good. She needs sleep. She needs peace. But I know it’s temporary. She’s seen the man with the red-eyed snake tattoo. That means she’s a target, whether we want to admit it or not. Serrano doesn’t leave witnesses. She needs safety and The RoyalHarlots will give her that for as long as it takes to put a stop to what’s going down on the streets outside our compound.
Turning back, I head to my room. The hallway feels longer than it should, the walls closing in on either side of me. My shoulders ache from carrying the weight of every unanswered question we’ve got.
Inside, my room’s pitch-black except for the weak spill of streetlight that cuts across the floor in broken lines through the blinds. I drop my cut over the back of the chair, toe off my boots, but I don’t sit.
Instead, I pace. Slow at first, then faster. My mind’s not in this room. It's still back in Church, still staring at that damn red-eyed snake now burned into my memory. Rico Mendez. Serrano. Dante. The names loop like they’re welded together. I try to make them separate but they keep snapping back into the same ugly chain.
I stop at the dresser, my fingers tracing across the wood, then I move again. Ten steps one way. Ten steps back.
I’m wired. Frustrated. Worn raw.
I strip down and head for the shower, letting the water run hot enough to sting. Steam curls up, fogging the mirror. I stay there longer than I need to, my palms braced against the tile, the pounding spray loud enough to almost drown out my thoughts. Almost.
When I’m done, I wrap a towel around myself, and wander back into the bedroom. I exchange the damp towel for an oversized t-shirt and drop into the chair. My phone’s already in my hand before I realize it. I scroll through messages, photos, news alerts, anything that might distract me or give me something useful. But it’s all the same recycled shit. No answers. No clarity. I flip it face-down on the nightstand like that’ll keep it from looking at me.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks I can just make out in the weak light bleeding through the blinds. I try to focus on breathing, on nothing, but my brain won’t let go. I press my knuckles against my jaw and exhale through my nose. Nothing helps.
It’s just past four a.m. when I give up pretending I’m going to sleep. I’m on my feet again, my legs won’t quit pacing. I cross the room to the window and push the blinds up with two fingers.
The street below is washed in the dull yellow glow of overhead lights. Empty. Still.
Except… I’m not.
My phone buzzes on the table behind me.
I freeze. No one texts me at this hour.
I snatch it up. An unknown number. But I read the text anyways:
It’s getting worse. If you want answers, we need to talk. - Dante
My thumb hovers over the screen. One question in my mind: how the hell did he get my number?
Everything inside me screams to proceed with caution. That this could be bait. That this might be a distraction. That he’s playing me.
The thoughts roll around with the others in my head, calculating whether Dante Cross is a problem… or an ally.
I’m not sure I know the answer, but I want to.
My thumb taps the screen, then pulls back. I stare at the blinking cursor like it’s a dare. I hold my breath a beat. My pulse pounding loud in my ears. Then I start typing:
Steel Roses Gym. Dawn. You show, you talk. I decide if I believe a damn word.
I hesitate. Then send it.
No pleasantries. Just a line in the sand. And a meeting I intend to control.
