A dark chuckle slips out of me. “Not a fucking chance.” I shake my head, staring down at my glass. “Rebel’s made up his mind. He thinks this is our war.”
“Even though his compound got hit last week?” Scar mutters.
“Even then.”
Scar groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’ve never had to deal with Hell’s Army before. And the one timewe actually need them beside us…” He shakes his head with a bitter sneer. “Fucking cowards.”
I shrug. There’s nothing we can do about it. Rebel even gave up his cut of the weapons shipment as compensation for walking away.
Money instead of men, which tells me everything I need to know. When the Hell’s Army is at our doorstep, we’ll be standing alone. The little peace I might be able to create for Charlotte, could vanish in a blink of an eye.
The thought sits heavy in my chest as I push my empty glass away. I’m about to get up, maybe head to the kitchen, to see her for a second and make sure she’s okay. Unless she’s in front of me, the gnawing fear inside my ribs doesn’t settle. Not even the sound of her voice does it anymore.
My hand is braced on the bar when—
Bang.
The clubhouse door slams open so hard it smashes against the wall. Every brother in the room goes rigid. Chairs scrape. Hands reach for weapons. The air shifts instantly, from tired tension to something sharp and deadly.
I’m off the stool before I even realize it. Gun in hand. Safety off. My finger rests outside the trigger guard as I take a step forward.
The entire room falls silent and the sharp clacking of shoes follows.
A man emerges from the dark shadows outside, in a perfectly tailored black trench coat—jacket stretched across broad shoulders. Black slacks. A gold chain glints lazily against the dark turtleneck wrapped around his throat.
He takes a slow drag from the cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curls through the air as he exhales, completely unbothered by the dozen guns now aimed at his chest.
The bastard doesn’t even pause. He strolls into the clubhouse like it’s his own little playground. Boots quiet against the floor. Another drag. Another cloud of smoke.
His gaze drifts around the room, lazy and assessing, like he’s inspecting property he already bought.
My pulse starts pounding. I know that kind of confidence. The kind only men with entire armies behind them carry.
He finally stops a few feet inside the room. His dark eyes land on me, then my patch.
A slow smile spreads across his face before scanning the room again. “Well,” he says smoothly. “Which one of you is Wolf?”
I swallow hard, his accent thick and unmistakably Eastern European.
The room goes deathly still and something cold settles deep in my gut.
The man flicks his cigarette onto our clubhouse floor and crushes it beneath his polished shoe. His smile doesn’t falter as he tilts his head slightly. Hands sliding uncaringly into his pant pockets. “I believe you have something that belongs to my sister.”
TWENTY-ONE
Ruin
My knuckles blanch around the grip of my SIG. The trigger sits a breath away from my finger. But the cold smirk on the bastard’s face gives me pause. Something about him screams calculated.
My gut tells me he didn’t walk in here alone, even if he’s letting us believe we hold the advantage. That we’re in control.
Two sets of boots scrape the floor behind me. I don’t need to look to know who it is—their gait unmistakable. Wolf and Ryder.
Still, I glance back quickly, and both are armed. Ryder’s gun is up like mine, but Wolf’s rests low at his side, not aimed.
“Me,” Wolf says calmly. “I’m Wolf.” He motions for everyone to lower their weapons.
Some brothers comply immediately. Ryder and I don’t. We hold our aim for several more seconds, my muscles twitching with the urge to put a bullet through the bastard’s skull.
