Don't know if I'm capable of being what she needs.
I've got blood on my hands—more now than ever—and a war coming that could destroy everything I've built.
But looking at her, feeling her weight against me, I know one thing for certain.
I'm not letting her go.
I slip out of bed an hour later, moving carefully so I don't wake her.
She murmurs something in her sleep, reaches for the warm space I left behind, then settles back into the pillow.
I stand there watching her for longer than I should, then force myself to turn away.
I've got work to do.
I find my clothes scattered across the floor—shirt by the dresser, jeans near the door, cut draped over the chair.
I dress quickly, quietly, and slip out into the hallway.
The clubhouse is quiet this early.
A few brothers passed out on the couches in the common room, empty bottles littering the tables around them.
Someone's snoring loud enough to rattle the windows.
Normal morning after a party.
I head for the kitchen, grab a pot of coffee, and take it back to my office.
The paperwork hasn't gone anywhere.
The problems haven't solved themselves overnight.
The world keeps turning, indifferent to the fact that everything feels different now.
I'm halfway through my second cup when I hear the bikes.
Not our bikes.
The sound is wrong—too clean, too uniform.
I set down my coffee and move to the window, pulling back the blinds just enough to see the parking lot.
Cops.
Three cruisers, lights off but engines running.
And stepping out of the lead car, straightening his uniform jacket like he's about to pose for a photograph, is a man I recognize from news broadcasts and city council meetings.
Chief Douglas Varro.
My jaw tightens. I knew this was coming.
Knew it the moment I decided to put Cain in the ground.
But I thought I'd have more time.
Thought they'd need at least a few days to find the body, to identify it, to trace it back to me.
