Viper’s number flashes on the screen, and a cold pulse hits the base of my spine.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Riley
It’s like the entire town has been dropped into a snow globe and shaken, flurries of confetti and ribbons drifting down from heaven. The air is saturated with the pulse of drums and trumpets, whistles and laughter, and the overlapping shouts of kids half-mad on sugar and freedom. Main Street is a living river of faces, and I’m pressed flush to Breaker’s side in the crowd, held tight by the sling of his arm around my waist. The warmth of him, the solid assurance of his grip, the way he looks down at me every few seconds as if he still can’t quite believe I’m here — it all feels like a fever-dream I’m terrified to wake from.
For one perfect second, it seems possible that I could have this forever. That someone like me, someone bruised, hunted, stitched together with hope and spite, could ever belong in this kind of happiness. I let my head rest against his shoulder. I let myself breathe in the scent of motor oil and rain and the faintest echo of cologne he only wears on special days.
In front of us, a float shaped like a giant spruce tree wobbles down the street, the troop perched in its papier mâché branches. The girls have painted their faces with stars and stripes, a few with sequined butterfly wings clipped to their vests, all of them waving and shrieking as if they’ve just discovered royalty. One of them — Daisy, I think, the smallest and loudest of the bunch — locks eyes with Breaker and gives him a salute, then belts out,“HAPPY PARADE, MR. BREAKER!” at the top of her lungs. He grins and gives her a salute back.
I almost laugh. I want to. Instead, I get this ache in my chest that’s halfway between joy and grief, because it’s dawning on me just how much I’m going to lose if things go wrong. How much I want, suddenly, to have years and years of this. Parades and birthdays, and spring mornings in bed with the windows open. Maybe even a house with a porch and a battered tire swing out front.
But the universe is a bastard with a warped sense of humor, and just as I’m imagining what a future might look like, I feel Breaker freeze against my side.
Then his phone rings.
He glances down at the screen, and a look comes across his face that sends a chill prickling down my spine.
“Breaker, what is it?”
“I have to take this.” Breaker clears his throat. “Give me a minute, Sparrow,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head before he steps away into the shadow of a parked pickup, back turned, holding the phone to his ear. His voice is a low, jagged scrape, barely audible over the parade noise. “Yeah.” A pause, then a harsh, “Where?” Another pause, longer this time. “Understood. On my way.”
By the time he turns around, a second phone is already ringing. This one belongs to Bishop, who’s standing a few yards down the sidewalk, eyes on the street but ears tuned to Breaker. He glances at the screen, meets Breaker’s gaze for just a second, then answers.
“Yeah?”
Tank’s next. Then Diesel. Like a line of dominoes, the men of the Twisted Devils start getting calls, each one delivered with the same sharp, clipped urgency. Every time a phone buzzes, the smiles get a little tighter, the bodies a little stiffer, the laughter alittle faker. It’s like watching a storm roll in over the mountains: at first you think it’s nothing, then all at once you realize everyone in town has started looking for cover.
Tank listens for a second, then says, “Copy. Got it.” He looks to Rabid, who’s already got his own phone out, and says, “Officer Alvarado says the target just pinged one of her watch lists.”
Rabid nods, already reading a text. “Confirmed. Chase just sent the heads-up and the address.”
That’s when I know, in my bones, that whatever I was so afraid of is here. That the parade isn’t just a parade anymore. It’s a prelude to something darker, and my stomach twists at the truth of it.
Breaker returns, his jaw set so hard I can see the pulse rage in his throat. He keeps his voice even, but I can feel the adrenaline burning off him in waves. “Viper called,” he says quietly. “He’s got something big. I’m heading there now.”
“Understood. Club, we move out in ten. Bishop, Tank, you’re riding with me. Diesel, you’re on standby for the second wave,” Rabid says, and he points at me, then at the cluster of women and kids further up the sidewalk. “Stay with the girls. Don’t get separated.”
Breaker doesn’t acknowledge any of it. He’s already pulling my hand into his, fingers laced so tight it almost hurts. His eyes are blazing, but when he looks at me, there’s this raw, desperate tenderness that undoes me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “I wanted today to be normal. I wanted to give you something good before…” He trails off, shaking his head. “This isn’t how I wanted it. I have to go. Now,” he says gently, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “I’ve gotta finish this. I’ve gotta end him.”
Fear tightens my throat. “Alone?”
He cups my face with both hands. “The club will catch up. And I won’t be going alone; I’ve got an old friend meeting me there.This ends today, Sparrow. We’re taking care of the threat, and then you’ll finally be free of him.”
I swallow hard. I want to believe, but I’ve had hope dangled in front of me so many times. And this time, it isn’t just me who could be hurt; it’s the man I love. “Will you be safe?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls me into him and kisses me — deep, slow, tender. The kind of kiss that steals the world out from under me.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“You’ll be safe,” he whispers. “That’s what matters. Soon enough, all of this will be over. You won’t have to run anymore. We’ll build a life here. Together.” His thumb strokes my lip.
“You’re it for me, Sparrow. I can’t wait to make a life with you.”
The words hit me like sunlight to the heart. I want to say I love you again. I want to cling to him. Tell him not to go. To let the rest of the MC take care of it.
