30 minutes later
The clubhouse is unnervingly quiet when we arrive. No music, no raucous laughter, none of the usual chaos that fills our sanctuary. Just murmured voices from the main room and the subtle scent of Luna's cooking, something with garlic and tomatoes.
I find King waiting in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest. His face gives away nothing, but I've known him long enough to read the tension in his shoulders.
"What's the situation?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Your sister showed up about forty minutes ago with a friend and her kid." He pauses. "The friend's sporting a shiner that makeup doesn't quite cover. Running from someone, from what I gather."
My jaw tightens. "And they came here? Now of all times?"
"Jenny has no idea what's going on with the Eagles," King says. "She just seems to think we can help. Said she didn't know where else to go. And you didn't tell me you and your sister were still in touch," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly.
"We're not." I run a hand over my buzzed hair. "Haven't spoken in five years."
King digests this information with a slight nod. "Well, she's here now. And she's your blood, which makes her our concern."
I know what he's not saying. In our world, family—blood or chosen—is everything. Even estranged family.
"I'll handle it," I say.
"I know you will." He claps me on the shoulder. "Luna's feeding them. The kid looks half-starved."
The mention of a hungry child sets my teeth on edge. I've seen too many in war zones, in neighborhoods where cops never patrolled. Nothing makes me more useless with rage than seeing a child suffer.
I follow King into the main room and stop dead in my tracks. Jenny sits at the long table beside Luna, looking both out of place and strangely at home. Her hair is longer than I remember, her face thinner. She's talking quietly, hands wrapped around a mug of something steaming.
Beside her sits a woman who might have been even prettier before exhaustion carved dark circles under her eyes and fear tightened her mouth. And the bruise… Christ, the bruise blooming across her left cheekbone is no accident. It's the precise size and shape of a man's fist.
But it's the little girl who sucker-punches me. She can't be more than five, with blonde pigtails and a pink dress that's seen better days. She's hunched over a plate of spaghetti, eating like she hasn't seen food in days, one arm curled around her plate like someone might take it away.
I've seen that posture before, in places where food is a luxury, not a right.
"Marcus." Jenny's voice pulls me back. She's standing now, uncertainty written across her face.
I haven't heard my real name in so long it takes me a moment to respond. In the club, I'm Tank. The Vice-President. Theweapon King points at problems that need solving. Marcus died somewhere between leaving the police force and joining the Savage Riders.
"Jenny." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "What are you doing here?"
Her chin lifts slightly. It's the same stubborn look she used to give our father when he criticized her.
"This is my friend Amelia," she says, gesturing to the woman who now stands beside her, one hand resting on the child's shoulder. "And her daughter Anna. They need help."
I look at Amelia, and, beyond the bruise, beyond the exhaustion, I see something in her eyes I recognize all too well. Determination. This is a woman who's been backed into a corner and is ready to fight with everything she has.
"What kind of help?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Her husband," Jenny says, voice tightening with anger. "Ex-husband," she corrects when Amelia flinches. "He's threatening to kill her if she doesn't come back. He's already put her in the hospital twice."
"He's a cop," Amelia speaks for the first time, her voice surprisingly steady. "No one will help me. Not the system, not domestic violence shelters. He finds me wherever I go."
A cop. Fucking hell. Of all the complications, this had to be the worst. The irony isn't lost on me, though. I left the force because of corrupt cops, and now one's hunting my sister's friend.
"When was the last time he contacted you?" I ask.
Amelia pulls out her phone and hands it to me without a word. The screen shows a string of text messages, each more threatening than the last.
*I know you're still in Riverbrook. I can smell you.*
