Men poured out of the clubhouse.
Not walked.
Poured.
Cuts, guns, boots hitting gravel, faces carved into murder. I recognized enough patches from the old stories and the one bloody night I’d spent here three years ago to know exactly how much trouble had rolled into my arms.
Santa Fe Royal Bastards did not look like men preparing to ask questions.
They looked like men deciding what could be fixed, what had to be buried, and who needed to bleed for making Edge Rourke’s daughter cry out in the dark.
Destiny was still curled against my chest in the back seat, shaking in little waves she couldn’t control. Her lashes fluttered, but she wasn’t all the way conscious. Every few breaths, her fingers tightened in my shirt like some part of her knew she was still being carried through the dark.
Her blood had dried sticky on my forearm.
Her hair was everywhere, thick and black, tangled over my cut and down my arm like spilled midnight. Even half-dead, covered in dirt and smoke, she looked unreal. Delicate face, fierce bones, warm caramel skin gone too pale under shock, mouth split at one corner, one cheek streaked with blood. She looked like something the desert had tried to break and failed to understand.
A shooting star dragged through cactus and fire.
Forbidden enough to get a man killed for noticing.
I stopped noticing.
I had to.
The truck jerked to a halt.
Before Nate even put it in park, Edge Rourke was there.
I had seen dangerous men move fast before. I had seen cartel soldiers rush a door. I had seen San Diego brothers dive through gunfire like death was just weather. But I had never seen a father reach for his injured child.
Edge hit the side of the Cybertruck like a storm made flesh.
The rear door started lifting, and he grabbed it with both hands, yanking hard enough that metal groaned.
“Destiny!”
The sound of her name ripped out of him.
Not shouted.
Torn.
Regan was right behind him, barefoot on gravel, red hair wild, face white with terror. She looked nothing like the sharp-mouthed queen I remembered from Santa Fe’s clubhouse. She looked like a mother who had been gutted and was still running on instinct.
“My baby,” she choked. “Where is she? Where’s my baby?”
Edge’s eyes found me.
Then found Destiny in my arms.
For one second, the whole yard went silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
Like every man there understood that a father’s world had narrowed down to the girl bleeding against my chest.
