I’d never been prouder, or more terrified, in my life.
The silence at Stone Lake was so thick you could taste it—metallic, oily, the flavor of every bad memory I’d ever had. My father didn’t look back, but you could feel him burning holes through the back of my skull. All around us, men in leather stood in a ring, arms crossed or fists tucked into pockets, nobody sure if they should cheer or shoot me for what I’d just done.
I felt Augustine shudder against me. His body shook with the aftershocks, the adrenaline, the pain—Jesus, so much pain. He smelled like blood and salt, and I wanted to collapse into him and never get up, but my legs remembered what it felt like to run from my father, and they weren’t about to give up now.
I let go of Augustine and turned to see that Cutler had returned, only six feet away, his back still turned. His shoulders heaved with each breath. I knew the drill, he was counting to ten, holding in the violence, making the kill decision. My father didn’t do mercy, but he did theater—he wanted an audience.
So I gave him one.
I stepped closer, boots sinking in the churned mud and blood. My voice came out raw, so hoarse I barely recognized it. “You gonna turn your back on me again, or are you finally gonna listen?”
No one moved. The Scythes and Leatherbacks had both seen their share of drama, but this was new territory. I had their attention. Fuck, I had the whole damn world’s attention.
Cutler turned, slow, like he was worried the earth might give way if he did it too fast. His face was a disaster—eyebrows pinched so tight they threatened to fuse, eyes red and wet at the corners. He looked at me, then at Augustine, then at me again.
“You think you know what you’re doing?” he said, voice all gravel and gasoline. “You think this is a game?”
I matched his stare, daring him to blink first. “You’re damn right I know. You taught me, remember? Every lesson you ever rammed down my throat about loyalty, about blood, about how real men protect their own—well, here I am. Protecting my own.”
He scoffed, but the sound was hollow. “That’s not what this is. This is you spitting on the only family you ever had.”
“My family was me and Mom until you beat her to death with your bare hands,” I spat, voice cracking. “The only thing you ever taught me was how to survive you.”
He stepped closer, looming. “You know what happens next if you do this, Melissa?”
I didn’t flinch. I’d spent too many years afraid of that voice to give it power now. “You kill him, or you kill me. Or you walk away and let us try to have a fucking life.”
He reached for me—maybe to grab, maybe to hit, maybe to hug, but I didn’t let him close the distance.
Instead, I raised my voice so every asshole in that dirt ring could hear, even the ones pretending not to care. “You really want to kill the father of your grandchild, Dad?” The word stung on my tongue, but I made it a weapon.
The world actually stopped.
Cutler’s mouth opened and closed. The lines on his face didn’t move, but the rest of him vibrated like a pulled trigger. You could see the shock ripple through the Leatherbacks as a couple of guys recoiled, one made a sign of the cross, and even the Scythes looked away, embarrassed for him.
“You’re lying,” he said, but it was barely a whisper.
I shook my head. “No. I’m not. It’s his. And I’m keeping it. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You want to kill something before it even gets a shot at living.”
He bared his teeth, tried to summon the old rage, but his body wasn’t buying it. His hands curled and uncurled, slow and useless.
I stepped forward again. “You always said you’d never be like your old man. Remember? You used to tell everyonehow he ran out on you and your mom, left you with nothing. You said you’d never leave your kid behind, never be that fucking coward.” I could feel the tears coming, but I choked them down, let the fury carry me. “But here you are. Ready to make me raise your grandchild alone, just so you can say you never lost. So you can die the last real man.”
The Leatherbacks started shifting, looking at each other, like maybe this wasn’t the show they’d signed up for.
Cutler didn’t move. He just stood there, rage and shame battling it out in his face, until finally the rage blinked first. His shoulders slumped. He looked old, for the first time ever.
Behind me, Augustine tried to straighten. I saw him brace on Seneca, then stumble forward, every step an act of will. He came to my side, and even though his face was a ruin, he grinned at my father with all the fuck-you in the world.
Cutler looked at him, then at me, then at the clubs. The silence stretched so long I thought maybe time had just given up.
“Fine,” he said, voice hollow as a drum. “You made your bed. Lie in it.”
He turned again, but this time he didn’t stop. He just walked, slow and heavy, through the circle of Leatherbacks, every man stepping back to let him pass.
He didn’t look at me, not once.
Augustine’s hand found mine. His fingers were sticky with blood, hot as fire, but I didn’t care. We stood together, a team, a family, while the rest of the world figured out how to reset itself.
