He drops his cigarette, stomps on it, and walks away.
I glance back at the clubhouse where Brandy still watches from the second-story window.
I drop my cigarette too, crushing it under my boot. The sun's climbing higher now, burning away the morning mist, but doing nothing for the chill that's settled in my bones.
The club doesn't feel like mine anymore. Maybe it never was. The brotherhood I thought I was joining, the family I believed I'd found—it's all smoke and mirrors.
A pretty lie told to keep me in line.
I look back at the clubhouse, at the strangers watching me from bikes and windows. The noose is tightening. I can feel it around my neck, pulling snug with each passing hour.
This isn't paranoia anymore. It's survival.
My phone buzzes against my thigh like a wasp. I know who it is before I pull it out. Seven-thirty. Like clockwork.
Mercy's morning check-in.
I step away from the line of traitors, putting distance between myself and whatever trap is being laid, and swipe open the message.
Morning! Library day today. The librarian says I can have FIVE books this time because I brought the others back early. This uniform ITCHES though. Eliza says we should put fabric softener in the wash but I don't know what that is. Miss you!
A photo follows. Mercy in her Rimrock Academy uniform—navy blazer with the school crest, plaid skirt, white button-up. Her hair's pulled back in a neat ponytail, not the wild tangle it was when I first came home. She's standing on stone steps, backpack slung over one shoulder, smiling like she's never been hungry or afraid.
Clean. Safe. Standing tall.
I stare at the image longer than I should. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the sound of motorcycles starting up. Men moving around the lot. But I can't look away from her face—the Kane eyes, our mother's smile. All the good parts without the damage.
Walking away from her was the right choice. The only choice.
I send my standard response: Thumbs up emoji and a black heart
Words would break something. If I started typing what I really feel, I'd never stop. And what good would that do either of us? Better she has this clean break. Better she believes I'm just an asshole who left, not a dead man walking into whatever Brick has planned.
My phone buzzes again. Second message.
Savannah said to tell you 'hi' this morning.
I don't answer this one at all.
Instead, I slide the phone back into my pocket, its weight grounding me.
Because while it was a bit of drama after I left, Savannah is, above all, an Ashby.
Proud.
Confident.
Not the kind of woman who pines over a man who decides to leave.
But also, not the kind of woman who turns down a fuck at the silo, either.
CHAPTER 2
Our stolen meetings feed a dark desire
That burns like lightning through the canyon walls,
While heaven's hosts and hell's own choir conspire
