Finn exhales. He reaches into the chest and lifts the necklace, a twin peaks pendant pooling in his palm. Different from the moonstone Knox gave Sarah—this one is older, rougher, the chain darkened with age.
"He's using sentiment as a weapon," Knox saysfrom across the yard, his back still turned. His voice carries the flat, controlled tone I've heard him use in the club when he's already made the decision and the conversation exists as a courtesy.
"Maybe." Finn's chin lifts. "Or maybe he's dying and he wants his sons to come home."
"He's manipulating us."
"You don't know that. 'Before it's too late'—"
"Then he dies without us." Knox's words land heavy enough to bruise. "The way he chose to live without us."
The fire snaps. A piece of armor buckles in the heat, the metal groaning as it warps. The sound cuts through the yard, and nobody moves.
Finn turns away. I follow.
We don't stop until we reach the far side of the garage, out of sight of the flames and the brothers and the black column of smoke still climbing. Finn leans against the corrugated wall, his head tipped back, his eyes closed, his body vibrating with a tension I feel through our joined hands and through the pulse beneath my ribs.
He's shaking.
"Talk to me."
"I don't know what to feel." He opens his eyes and the pain hits harder than anything I treated during the hurricane. "Knox and I—we're not regular orcs, Jess. Our father is War chief Drogmar of the Bloodstone Clan. Orc royalty. Knox was the heir. I was the spare, the extra."
He turns the necklace over in his palm, the chain catching on his knuckles.
"Our mother died when I was young. Years later, Father tried to force Knox into an arranged marriage to unite the clans. Knox refused, and Father cast him out. He walked down the mountain with nothing." A breath. "I followed four months later. I was eighteen."
"And your father?"
"He's dying. The scroll said as much, and the letters before it. The clans need a legitimate heir or they tear themselves apart." He looks toward the column of smoke still rising above the garage roof. "Knox won't go back. Won't talk about it."
My brain clicks into the mode that kept me alive in Helmand. Threat assessment. I've spent the last two minutes processing grief—his, Knox's, the weight of a family tearing itself apart across mountain ranges. But grief doesn't explain five crates of ancient weapons arriving at a motorcycle club's gate during a hurricane.
"Finn. Is that scroll a gift or a summons?"
He blinks. "What?"
"The crates. The weapons. The heirlooms. That's not a care package from a dying old man. Who sent them? Who packed them? Who knew where to deliver them?" I keep my voicelevel, the way I'd run a field briefing. "Because what I see is a reconnaissance package. Someone scouted this location, built five custom crates, and timed delivery for maximum emotional impact. That's not sentiment. That's an operation."
Finn stares at me. Through the bond, I feel his surprise shift into reluctant recognition.
"What happens if you and Knox don't respond?"
"I don't know. The letters escalated from requests to demands. This is the first time they've sent physical objects. Last time it was an emissary. "
"So they're escalating. Is there a timeline? A deadline implied in 'before it's too late'?"
"Jess—"
"I'm not asking to be cold. I'm asking because if someone is running an operation on the man I love, I want to know." I take his free hand. "We can grieve and plan at the same time. I've done it before."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, small and exhausted and real.
"Knox said I picked a good one."
"He's right."
"And you, do you regret leaving?"I ask, softer now.
