“Are you coming?” The words escaped before I could stop them.
Ryan’s eyes found mine instantly. Softening slightly.
“Can’t, Grey.”
Of course, he couldn’t. The war stayed here with the men. Something painful tightened in my chest, anyway. He stepped closer while everyone else climbed aboard, his fingers brushing briefly against mine. Tiny contact. Barely there. But enough to steady me.
“Stay on the island,” he murmured quietly. “No wandering off. No trying to play doctor. And don’t let Tori start any shit.”
“I heard that,” Tori snapped from the back of the van.
“Good,” Ryan answered without missing a beat.
A few tired laughs moved through the women, and somehow that helped. Just enough to ease the pressure squeezing all of us. Then Indie appeared at the end of the street with Fury beside him, both scanning the road automatically before Indie knocked twice against the side of the minibus.
“Time.”
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Doors slammed. Bags shuffled onto laps. The engine growled louder beneath us. Outside, the prospects peeled away from walls and parked cars, climbing into ordinary-looking vehicles staggered up the street. No cuts. No Harleys. No attention. Just shadows escorting us north.
I watched Ryan through the window as we pulled away from the kerb. He stood in the middle of the road watching us go, hands shoved into the pockets of his cut, tattoos dark against his skin beneath the streetlights. He didn’t move until we turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
The city slowly gave way to darker roads and long stretches of coastline. Newcastle faded behind us, lights glowingamber against the low clouds, while conversation inside the minibus rose and fell quietly around grief and exhaustion.
The further north we travelled, the thinner the traffic became until eventually flashing headlights appeared behind us near Morpeth. Three motorbikes. Black. They overtook in the right-hand lane, wolf sigils catching briefly under passing streetlights.
“The Vandals,” Emmie muttered from beside me.
The man at the front was broad and imposing even on the bike, the others staying behind him like shadows. They rode smoothly, perfectly in sync. The handover happened almost wordlessly. The minibus driver slowed slightly while the bikes shifted formation around us like they’d done this a hundred times before. The car in front slowing as we followed the motorbikes in an overtaking manoeuvre, and then dropping back. Then suddenly the little pricks of headlights vanished, tucking off the road somewhere behind us. In front of us, the Vandals guided us east towards the coast. Towards Holy Island. Towards the long, dark stretch of causeway disappearing into the sea.
Chapter Thirty Five
Music thumped low in the clubhouse, loud enough that I couldn’t hear the escalation of my heartbeat every time I thought of Sophie and the rest of the women, but low enough that we would catch the rumble of an incoming engine. Demon tracked the cameras with his phone, flicking through views every second, the incessant swipe of his hand annoying the fuck out of me. I was wired, my only solace in the pints I’d pulled from behind the bar. I needed a joint or more. But I needed a clear head more than anything.
“We’ve got movement on the road,” Demon grunted, looking up from his phone. “Car.”
“Do we recognise it?”
His eyes dropped to the screen again, staring hard. Behind me, Fury was on his feet, his eyes on the screen above the bar.
“Fuck!”
“What is it, Fury?” Indie looked around, checking the doors, then the windows, a sweep of the bar as he waited for our VP’s answer.
“Jake.”
“Your fucking brother really knows how to pick his moments,” Indie complained.
Beside me, the twins shifted uncomfortably while Fury dragged a hand over his beard, like he was already regretting whatever was about to happen.
“Let him in,” Indie ordered eventually.
The clubhouse door opened a few seconds later, prospects stepping aside, letting Jake and the cold night air sweep inside. Plain clothes tonight. Dark jacket. Jeans. But he still carried himself like a copper. Alert eyes. Controlled posture. Assessing threat levels every second he breathed. Rats, the lot of them, and just like rats, you were always only a few feet away from one at any one time, or so it seemed this week.
Conversations died almost instantly as Jake’s gaze swept across the bar. It lingered on cuts. On faces. Numbers. Counting who was present and who wasn’t.
“You picked a fucking brilliant time to visit,” Fury muttered.
Jake ignored him. His eyes settled on Indie instead.
