Griffin Shaw. Former Marine Sniper. Papaw had trained Shaw right alongside Steel. The two of them had been neck and neck for most tests and trials, but in the end, Steel had prevailed. Shaw had been disappointed, sure, but he’d congratulated Steel to his face while plotting his downfall. It had only been a weird twist of fate that had prevented Steel from being framed for murder thirty years ago.
Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, though. Steel should have seen it coming when Dixie Gilbert had been murdered and the evidence pointed to Steel. But it hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d written Griffin Shaw off three decades ago. The man hadn’t even been on his radar.
He was now.
Now there was no place on this fucking earth that he could hide where Steel would not find him. He had the time, he had the money, and now, he had the motive.
Grief swirled in Steel’s soul, morphing into rage, hate, and fury. A molten heat burned inside him, melting the glue that had once held Steel’s pieces together. He shattered, a roar of vengeance billowing from his core.
His fist pounded against the hard surface beneath him, but the stone proved stronger than the bones in his fingers. He didnot stop. He did not cry. He’d only allowed himself one tear, and he’d already shed it. Blood mixed with rain as his skin fractured and split. Steel forced himself to his feet, mud caked on him like icing. His boot connected with the unforgiving granite he paid money to have her name etched into. He hated the sight of it, the curve of the letters that were once so sacred to him.
It did not budge, though the mud beneath him did. The more he kicked and hit and fought, the more he started to sink into the very soil they’d just covered her coffin with. Would it be too much to hope that it pulled him under like quicksand so he could join her?
A hand on his shoulder stopped him. Steel slid in the mud, his balance taken by grief and rage. He looked to his left to see Scar. Knowing his silent brother as he did, Steel was not surprised that he’d stayed out in the rain with Steel. He was shocked that the man was touching Steel, though. After being held captive for weeks in an Afghani mountain, Scar was touch sensitive. The only person Steel knew of that the man willingly touched without feeling like he was putting his hand on a lava pile was his fiancée, Tally.
Yet he willingly put his hand on Steel’s shoulder to stop him.
Gasping for breath, Steel saw the same rage and anguish in Scar’s bright sapphire blue eyes that currently fueled Steel’s soul. He knew in that moment what his brother planned to do.
“You don’t have to,” Steel warned. “This is my fight.”
Scar dropped his hand from Steel’s shoulder, and Steel noticed how he fisted his fingers around his palm like he was trying to ease the ache of a burn. Determination radiated off of him.
Steel knew there was nothing he could say to keep his brother from coming with him. But this was also Scar. Of everyone in the club, if he had to choose one brother to accompany him on this bloody crusade, it would be him. The brother whose moralcompass faced anywhere but north. “The others will want to come too. If we leave now, we can slip by them without notice.”
No one would expect Steel to miss the reception entirely. But how could he go into that room with her picture everywhere and expect to accept condolences and be social when hermurdererstill breathed air?
Scar looked over his shoulder. Somehow in the time it took everyone to go inside and the rain to start and for Steel to crumble, Scar had moved their two hogs to the road by the cemetery.
Steel took one last look at the old white church where his remaining family was mourning before turning his back on it. He got his feet out of the mud and nodded once. “Let’s ride.”
CHAPTER 1
PRESENT DAY – DAY AFTER PUMPKIN
Steel let out a long, low groan that was quickly accompanied by a light, feminine laugh. The best fucking sound in his world.
Flaming orange hair filled his vision as Jenna rose over him. About five years ago, Jenna’s hair started to lose some of its brightness and gray/white hairs appeared. She’d immediately dyed her hair, thinking he would think less of her as her age started to show. Ridiculous. As much as he loved her fiery locks, they did not define her. Besides, he’d gone gray long before she had, and it had only seemed to make her hotter for him.
Their sex life had taken a turn recently. Even before her diagnosis, they’d stopped with the rough, hard, fast fucks that had driven them for a good part of their marriage. Steel hadn’t even noticed at first. It had been a natural progression for them. The slow, toe-curling, passionate lovemaking that set his body on fire. He didn’t miss the hard fucking. Christ, there’d been times when he’d been home from deployment and they hadn’t even made it to the main road. Their truck had been their makeshift bedroom too many times to count.
Steel was pretty sure they’d conceived Jordan in the back of his truck. It was a sad day when that truck died and Steel had been forced to get a new one. He still had it, refusing to have it sold for parts. Not only had Mr. Zarin given him that truck when he was sixteen, but he had far too many memories in it to let it be dismantled. As a military man, he’d been trained not to get sentimental overthings. Things could be replaced, people couldn’t. Their home was never permanent and always at Uncle Sam’s directive. But that truck washis. A piece of Port Townsend, of home. Hisonlypiece actually.
Jenna was fucking beautiful. She dyed her hair to make herself feel good, which was all that mattered to Steel. Now if he ever found out she was going on a diet? He’d shut that shit down in a heartbeat. There was never a more perfect woman than the one lowering herself down onto his chest.
Steel threaded his fingers through her hair. They’d shower in a bit and then he’d comb it for her. Showering with Jenna had always been a luxury more than a necessity. At least, until last April when she’d fallen while showering and he wasn’t in the house. Their adopted son, Ollie, had found her and been able to get her help. Jenna thought it was an inconvenience that Steel had mandated they shower together from now on. Her silly brain could not comprehend the privilege that it was.
Nearly a year ago, Jenna and Steel had gotten the test results back. It hadn’t been what they’d feared. Her dizziness, constant tripping, shortness of breath, and forgetful spells had driven them to see a doctor, who had then sent them to a specialist. Cancer had been the assumption. It wasn’t, but in some ways, it was just as devastating.
Late-onset multiple sclerosis, or LOMS. In and of itself, MS was not a death sentence. The amount of independent research Steel had done, beyond what her doctors had informed them of, had confirmed that. Steel also reached out to people living withMS and family members so Jenna had people to talk to with personal experience of what she was going through. Medical research and advancements were being made every day. It was no longer a matter ofwhenbutifthe disease would claim a life.
Jenna, though, was diagnosed in her fifties, classifying her as late-onset. This added complications to her life expectancy as well as symptoms. The disease was progressing more aggressively than Relapsing-Remitting MS that was typically detected in younger individuals. At present, Jenna was categorized as Secondary-Progressive MS, which meant her symptoms were steadily worsening over time, even without active relapses.
They were not waving the white flag, though. There was a lot they could do to slow the progression, including some Eastern therapies. It helped that there was a doctor, an RN, and an acupuncturist within the club, and all three lived within walking distance of Steel and Jenna’s house.
Even so, it felt like there was a constant clock ticking in the back of Steel’s mind. Reminding him that his mornings waking up to Jenna next to him were numbered. He was fighting it, did his best to ignore the continuoustick, tick, tick…but there were times when it grew incessant and there was no muting it.
A part of him wondered if this was how death row inmates felt, the constant pressure of the inevitable.
