I bend forward, my forehead pressing into my fists. The tears I’ve been trying to swallow back rise up and spill over.
I let them. For her. For what she’s been through. For what I failed to protect.
And for the fact that I know, deep down, nothing I do will ever erase the hurt I added to her pain.
My chest heaves, and I drag in a sharp breath that feels like glass going down my throat.
I groan in frustration, knowing if I’d have just followed her myself, this wouldn’t be our reality. Instead, I got too lazy, putting club shit before my own woman.
And then, instead of seeing the signs, instead of realising she was in torment, I sent a fucking predator to follow her.
I should have killed that motherfucker myself.
My tears hit the floor in silent drops. I grip the edge of the desk so hard the wood creaks beneath my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, even though she’s not here to hear me. “I’m so fucking sorry, Queenie.”
For once, being president means nothing. All the strength, the power, the reputation, it’s useless. Because the only thing I care about in this world walked through hell while I stood on the sidelines pointing blame.
And now, I can never take it back.
Some time passes before I dry my face with the heel of my hand and force myself to stand. My legs feel unsteady, like I ran a marathon inside my own mind and lost, but I straighten my back anyway. I’m the President. I have to fucking act like one now.
There’s only one way I know how to handle this,as a club.Because what happened to Eden wasn’t just an attack on her. It was an attack on us. On my family. On the Satan Kings.
And I’ll be damned if I sit here crying while the bastard who did this to her rots in some alley without a reckoning.
I unlock my office door and step out into the quiet hallway. The clubhouse is mostly dark with the lights low, and brothers asleep in their rooms after another long day.
But peace isn’t something we get tonight.
I draw in a steadying breath, wipe the last trace of weakness from my face, and head for the stairwell. My throat burns from everything that’s come out of me; pain, guilt, rage, but I force my voice to work.
“Church!” I bellow, loud enough to shake the walls. “Up now! Everyone in church—now!”
Doors slam open instantly, confused shouts echoing through the corridor.
Diesel appears first, half-dressed, face lined with worry. “Pres? What’s going on?”
“Wake them all,” I grind out. “Every brother. Five minutes.”
He studies me, and something in my expression must tell him this isn’t club politics. This is war.
He nods sharply. “On it.”
I stalk toward the meeting room, blood pounding in my ears. The weight in my chest hasn’t gone, but it’s hardened now, turning into something sharp and lethal.
When I push open the church doors, the room feels different. Colder. Darker. Like it knows my pain.
I grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as brothers begin to file in one by one, tired and disoriented.
There’s no turning back now. Liam may be dead. But the people who enabled him aren’t. The shit he dragged into our territory isn’t. And the pain he put in Eden’s eyes sure as hell isn’t.
The last brother staggers into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Nobody’s talking. They can feel it, the tension hanging thick enough to choke on.
I stand at the head of the table, shoulders rigid, fingers digging into the worn wood.
Diesel, Razor, Tap, Cole, Smoke, Stacks, they all take their seats, eyes fixed on me like they’re waiting for a bomb to go off.
When the door closes, I take a breath I barely feel in my lungs.
