“Jackson,” I whispered, curling myself around him, my hand pressing against his chest, attempting to soothe the beast that warred deep within him and, I realized with a sickening lurch, within myself. It felt like trying to tame a wildfire with a whisper.
“Jingles, get the fuck out of here.” The large man standing in front of us, his face a mask of indifference, shoved Sebastian away. Another brother walked forward, his presence not helping Jackson’s growing hostility.
“King, I called Patch. Bane is taking care of Mimic, though he isn’t happy about it.”
“I’m fine,” Jackson grunted, his voice rough, but the slight wince, the subtle clench of his jaw, told a different story.
“You aren’t fucking fine; you probably tore your fucking stitches again.” The large man glared at Jackson, and that’s when I saw his patch.
King. The president of the Silver Shadows.
My breath hitched. This was a world I’d actively avoided, a vortex of violence and primal loyalties. And Jackson, my Jackson, was at its heart.
“I can take care of myself, been doing it my whole fucking life.” Jackson’s defiance was a fragile shield, but it was cracking.
I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes, a fear I’d never witnessed before.
“Ravage,” the other brother muttered, shaking his head, a warning I desperately wished Jackson would heed.
“Listen, asshole, I’m the king of this motherfucking castle, and if I want to stitch you back up, you’ll sit down and shut up while I fucking do it.” King’s voice was laced with a fierce protectiveness that mirrored Jackson’s own, a stark reminder of the bonds he’d forged, bonds I was an outsider to.
Jackson glared at him. “Why the fuck do you care so much?” His question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken pain, with a history I wasn’t privy to, but could feel gnawing at him.
“Because you’re my little fucking brother!” King shouted, and I gasped as Jackson stiffened, his body rigid, his gaze fixed on the man before us. The raw, unguarded emotion in King’s voice was a seismic shock. Jackson’s past, so carefully compartmentalized, was crashing down around him. I saw it in the tightening of his fists, the wildness in his eyes. He was being confronted with a truth he clearly wanted nothing to do with, a truth that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed persona he’d built.
“Jane Craven is your mother?” Jackson asked, his own voice strained. He looked at King, a question hanging in the air, a question that felt like it could shatter everything he thought he knew.
King took a deep breath as he rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on a beautiful woman standing behind the bar. When he finally turned back to Jackson, he sighed. “No,” King stated for all to hear. “And she wasn’t your mother either. Karlyn, see that woman behind the bar?”
I nodded, my own unease mirroring King’s. “That’s my old lady.”
The brother standing next to King chuckled, a low, dry sound.
King elbowed him in the gut, a sharp jab that made the man wince. “Would you sit with her while I talk to Ravage in my office? I promise no one here will hurt you.”
“King, I want her—” Jackson started, his voice a raw plea, his possessiveness a clear signal of ownership.
“I’ll sit with her, brother. I won’t leave her side.” The man next to King smiled, his eyes kind, but King’s request still felt like a dismissal, a subtle push away from the heart of the matter. Eros and Indigo walked over, their presence a silent but potent force. Looking at me, the man introduced himself. “I’mNavigator, but everyone calls me Nav. I know Ravage, Eros, and Indigo.”
“Are you a chosen brother too?” I asked, grasping at any familiar concept, any anchor in this sea of uncertainty.
The man simply nodded at me before his gaze shifted to Jackson, his tone hardening. “Talk to King.” His implication was clear: my comfort was secondary.
“It’s okay, Jackson,” I whispered, my words feeling like a betrayal of my own instincts. I wanted to cling to him, to demand answers, to refuse to be separated. But the look in King’s eyes, a mixture of pleading and grim necessity, forced my hand. It was a choice I didn’t want to make—to separate from Jackson when he was clearly so vulnerable. Then, against the gnawing voice of protest in my mind, I kissed his cheek and moved to the bar with his three chosen brothers, a hollow ache settling in my chest.
I was leaving him, leaving him to face whatever King had to reveal, and the thought of him alone with the weight of these impossible truths filled me with a deep, unsettling dread.
I knew with a certainty that chilled me to the bone that this was a mistake.
Taking a seat at the bar, the beautiful woman King had pointed to just moments ago smiled at me. “Hi. I’m Grace. What can I get you?”
“Water.”
“You sure? You look like you need something stronger.”
I smirked. “I don’t drink. Well, I’ve never had any kind of alcohol, so I wouldn’t know what I liked or didn’t.”
“Never?”
