“I do not joke about murder. Perhaps it is as well that Locke got to you first.”
I peered at him, trying to read the cryptic bastard. I’d heard rumours that Alexei could be low-key hilarious when his mood was right, but I’d never seen it. My experiences with him had all been like this: baffling and boring. Andviolentwhen he let me loose, but apparently that wasn’t happening.
“You cannot kill anyone tonight,” he clarified. “We do not have the time or energy for bodies right now, and I am trusting you to control yourself.”
“Sounds like a gamble to me.”
Alexei leered. “Make it a good one.”
“Planning on it.” I paced the open space of the bunkhouse. “It’ll be all three of those cunts, won’t it?”
All three Doherty sons.
“I’d imagine so.” Alexei leaned casually against a bunk. “You will defeat the sons in age order until you reach the youngest, and he is the strongest fighter. His left hand is fast, like his father before he became an old drunk who swings at little girls.”
The air deadened. I stopped pacing and faced Alexei, meeting his flinty gaze head on. “He might not have hit her.”
“He thought about it, nomad. That is enough. And even without that, this... lingering dissent about you and Locke, and Folk. It needs to end. Tonight. So do what you need to make it happen.”
He left. Suddenly. As if he’d never been there at all, but his words stuck. I wasn’t around enough to give a shit that some old time Kings didn’t like me. But Locke was. Folk. And they had better things to do than fight it out every time some lippy cunt opened their fat mouth. Better lives to lead than mine.
Make it happen.
The tsar had spoken, and he’d get no argument from me.
Locke brought me a paper bag of magic from the McDonalds up the road. I ate it while he grumbled about me lookingfuckin’ thin. Then I took a nap, sleeping off the grease and beer while the world kept turning around me.
It was late when I woke up.
Saint stood over the bunk I’d crashed out on. “I’ll wrap your hands.”
Yawning, I let him do it, waiting for the inquisition. But it never came. Either he already knew or he didn’t care about my motivations for beating the shit out of a bunch of fucking idiots. “Folk’s gone, right?”
Saint nodded and raised his fists, gesturing for me to warm up with him. There wasn’t a lot of space in the bunkhouse, but for whatever reason, he didn’t seem to want me to leave it just yet.
We sparred, Saint keeping me on my toes, as fast with his feet as I was.
It got my blood pumping. I had a lot of love for Saint—I’d never want to hurt him, but the kicks I didn’t land pissed me off enough that I was buzzing by the time Rubi called us out.
I followed Saint into the yard. Packed and rowdy, it was a different place to what it had been a few hours ago and I could dig it. Fight nights were one of my favourite parts of biker life. When the noise drowned out the shitty music and the ring became the road.
And this ring belonged to Nash McGovern, had done for years, but as I reached the raised canvas, it wasn’t him waiting for me. It was Locke, and my brother stood tall beneath the fairy lights that canopied the mat—all six five of him.
I rolled beneath the ropes and sprang to my feet. He grinned as a shout from the crowd reached us.
“Dirty Crow bitches.”
Locke’s smile widened. “We’ll see.”
He wasn’t worried.
Neither was I.
I stood to the side, leaving Locke to manage the crowd while Rubi took bets and Nash watched on from a seat further back, letting Locke speak for him. Deliberate, or was he just fucking knackered?
No clue, and I didn’t care enough to ponder it long. The Kings could pantomime this as much as they liked, the outcome would be the same.
I dragged my stolen crew neck over my head and leaned against the ropes, sizing up my opponent. Same height but wider. Puddle-blond hair, like the water at the bottom of a broken dishwasher. Punchable face. He wasn’t going to last long, so I let my gaze skip over him to his brothers waiting in the wings.
