Damn. There it was. That fucking face. That tousled copper-streaked hair.
That kiss.
Fuck’s sake. I squeezed my fingers around the throttle, as if speed and adrenaline were any match for the frisson of heat and hurt that rocked me. As if there wasanythingthat could block out the clusterfuck of the last year.
Maybe if it started and ended on that kiss, I’d have been able to bear it, but that fuckingface. It didn’t take much for it to disintegrate before my eyes, broken and bleeding, that meadow-green gaze vacant and staring.
Vacant anddead.
He’s not dead.And to him, the distinction probably mattered. But to me it all felt the same. Like it did with Locke, and I already knew Priest had fucked Viktor up worse than he had my old friend.
Priest.
Viktor.
My grip on the throttle loosened, engine noise fading as something wicked squeezed my heart. Lips at my neck. Hot hands on my skin. A slow smile that was better than any drug on earth. It was all there, so fucking sweet I could taste it. Then the void came, brief and brutal, before HD memories of one of the worst days of my life kicked in.
“He was fucked up.” Nash lit a blunt and passed it across my face to Rubi. For whatever reason, they’d decided to flank me as they delivered the good news, not giving me a momentto contemplate how they knew it would fucking kill me. “They kicked the shit out of him for months. Jacked him with smack and fucking tortured him. Honestly, I don’t know if he’s ever going to be okay after that.”
My bike slowed to a stop in the middle of the deserted road, the tarmac scuffing my boots, my heart lurching through the slow, excruciating skip it always did when Viktor forced his way to the front of my mind. As if it hadn’t been a lifetime since I’d last seen him. As if a kiss so fucking perfect I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a mandy-laced dream had happened yesterday, not a year ago.
I brought a shaky hand to my chest, cursing that Russian bastard. No fucker had ever got to me like this. Not even Finch, and I’d loved her—Istillloved her.
Not like that.
Not likethis.
Whatever this or that meant. I didn’t linger long to find out. Running from the wrench in my chest was the only remedy I knew, and I hit the road hard, paying even less attention to my route than before.
I was halfway to fucking Devon before I tuned back in to my surroundings, but even the irritation that swamped me was better than thinking about the last time I’d been here. When I’d fucked up and put my foot in my mouth so bad Locke had almost thumped Nash.
It was definitely better than agonising over the fact that I hadn’t been there to protect Viktor when Priest had snatched him. That he’d been hurt so bad only Locke’s stubborn hero genes had saved him.
That he’d left without saying goodbye—actually, the fucker hadn’t even hung around long enough to sayhello.
Don’t think about that.
I didn’t. I thought about nothing, a skill I’d had to perfect to keep myself sane. Moody meditation while my wrist flexed on the throttle, bringing me closer and closer to the last place on earth I wanted to be.
Lucky for me, I had options, and I zipped through King territory if not undetected, at least undisturbed as I burned past Cam O’Brian’s literal house.
The route took me south to the Jurassic Coast, to Elm Lodge, where I paid a gangster premium for extended visiting hours.
I rocked up at dawn. They let me in, and despite spending the past few months cursing my inescapable connection to the Rebel Kings MC, this morning I was grateful to them. For their influence and generosity. For the regular cash deposits that allowed me to treat Jean how she deserved.
For the fresh flowers I found in her room. Thanks to some hardcore glaucoma, my nanna was blind, but she loved the smell of the lilies and fuckingchamomilestuffed in a vase by her bed.
My gratitude evaporated, but my inner bitch was drowned out by the sight of my favourite soul tottering out of the bathroom, her white hair hidden by a paisley headscarf, dried clay on the clothes she wore for her Monday morning activities.
I paused in the doorway. “Happy Birthday, Nanna.”
She didn’t startle—the staff had told her I was on my way up. But her smile was so bright and pure it shockedme, jumpstarting my brittle heart. “Is that my baby boy?”
“Don’t be fucking cute. You know it is.”
Jean laughed. “All right, duck. No need for that language.”
As if she wasn’t the one who’d taught me how to turn the air blue. I ventured forward, reaching her as she got to the chair at the side of her bed, her navigation skills on point.
