They’re not just on the run from Cash and whatever Ashby bullshit will follow them forever now that a bloodline baby is involved, they’re runnin’ from me too.
My arm is starting to ache from holding the gun level. My ribs scream every time I inhale, my head is poundin’ like a motherfucker.Everythinghurts.
The baby makes a soft sound, like a question.
I lower the gun slowly, muscle by muscle, like I’m dismantling a bomb. The metal feels heavier going down than it did coming up. Like gravity knows what this surrender costs me.
The gun points at the ground now. Not holstered. Not surrendered. Just... paused.
Destiny cradles the baby against her chest. Her eyes are different now—softer around the edges but harder at the center. Motherhood didn't make her gentle. Just gave her something worth fighting for.
"I hope..." she says, voice catching a little. "I hope one day, you slay that demon, Legion. I really do."
The words hit hard. A stab in the back. A shiv in the ribs. Not because she said them, but because she means them. LikeI'mthe one possessed. LikeI'mthe one who needs saving here.
My name is Legion, for we are many. The verse I've carried since birth, tattooed across my soul before it ever touched my skin.
Destiny shifts the baby in her arms, takes a step toward me. "You want to hold her? Just once before?—"
"No." The word comes out rough, unfinished.
"She's blood, Legion. Your blood."
I shake my head, backing away like she's fire.
This baby is doomed. Adding my filth to her burden will only make it happen faster.
And then, in this moment of damnation that feels like it was handcrafted just for me, Colt opens the Range Rover door. Destiny hesitates, looking back at me one last time before climbing in. Colt gets in too. The engine purrs to life—wealth sounds different, even in machinery.
They back up, do a three-point turn, and then pull away slowly. Tires crunching gravel, kicking up dust that hangs in the air like unspoken apologies.
I watch until they disappear around the bend.
Failure settles in my gut like concrete.
I never protected her.
And now I never will.
I slide the gun down into the small of my back as I walk across the compound. Every boot step feels like regret. Forty-seven pairs of eyes watch me from everywhere imaginable. Windows. Doorways. Shadows. Some with respect, some with judgment, all measuring what just happened against what they would've done.
Brick stands by the door, face giving nothing away except the slight nod—acknowledgment, not approval. Diesel's jaw works like he's chewing on words he won't spit out. Roach just stares, calculating odds I don't want to know.
The clubhouse looks different now. Smaller. The air thicker with something unspoken. The same walls and floors, but the brotherhood has shifted. The vote bought Savannah protection, but what just happened put cracks in foundations I can't see.
Savannah’s eyes find mine—questions I don't have answers for written across her face. She's on the porch, standing behind Mama Jo and the others like she's been hiding.
I walk past her without slowing. The gun at the small of my back feels heavier than it should.
The threshold looms ahead—just a doorway, just worn wood and metal hinges. But crossing it feels like choosing sides.
In or out.
Brother or blood.
Club or family.
I step through, feeling something tear inside me as I do.
