“Get up, Destiny.”
Somewhere beyond the brush, people shouted. Doors slammed. The first siren cut off, replaced by urgent voices. Red and blue light flickered against the smoke.
Cops.
Fire department.
Ambulance.
Every adult in Santa Fe who loved a scandal.
My stomach dropped so hard I thought I might pass out.
I had to hide.
I had to get up, get to the bike, get away, get anywhere. The club would hear. Edge would hear. Edge was probably already tearing through town with half the Royal Bastards behind him because his stolen bike had GPS or because he knew me too well or because fathers like him felt disaster in their bones.
My dad was going to kill me.
If the town didn’t do it first.
I laughed once, and it came out broken.
“Oh, I’m so fucked.”
The words floated into the desert, swallowed by smoke and sirens and the distant roar of a fire I had started because a girl with a cruel mouth had said my name wrong one too many times.
I pressed my burned hand against my stomach and looked toward the glow.
They were all going to know now.
Desert Saints.
Santa Fe.
The Royal Bastards.
Edge.
Regan.
Tarak.
Everyone.
No more hiding. No more swallowing it. No more pretending Mandy’s ghost was something other people carried and I didn’t.
Tonight I had given them the story they always wanted.
Mandy’s daughter.
Bad blood.
Fire in her veins.
I dragged myself deeper into the brush, every movement ripping pain through my body, and curled behind a clump of mesquite as headlights swept the dirt trail.
I held my breath.
