“You killed Riggs?”she whispers, the question hanging in the air between them.
Zach’s expression softens slightly as he looks at her.“In self-defense,” he says, which isn’t exactly a lie.“During the club war.He attacked our clubhouse.”
She absorbs this, one hand unconsciously moving to her stomach.“Jason said his cousin died in a club dispute.Said it was murder.”
“It wasn’t,” I interject, feeling the need to defend Zach even though I wasn’t there for the actual confrontation.“Riggs came after us.After me.Zach protected his family.”
Something shifts in Daphne’s expression, understanding, maybe, or recognition of a shared experience.“What happens now?”she asks, her voice small but steadier than before.
Zach looks to me, deferring to my judgment in a way that makes my chest tighten with affection despite the circumstances.This is my clinic, my patient.He’s made his point, now he’s letting me lead.
“That depends on what you want, Daphne.”
“I want to give the baby up for adoption, he or she needs an amazing life and chance, but I still want to see them to make sure they’re okay,” she spouts off, and I want to hug her so bad.
“Well, we can sort that out.”I smile at her and she relaxes.
Zach is giving me a strange look, and it takes all of my effort to not ask him what it means.
* * *
Jason
The prospects shove me through the clinic doors, my shoulders aching where their fingers dig into my flesh.My mind still reels from what just happened inside.Slaughter’s face inches from mine, his voice a deadly whisper.“I’m the one who killed him.”
The words echo in my skull like a death knell.Slaughter killed Riggs.My cousin.The man who practically raised me after my own father went to prison.
“Keep walking,” one of the prospects growls, giving me another push toward the parking lot.
I stumble forward, legs still weak from the encounter.My throat burns where Slaughter’s fingers pressed against my windpipe, cutting off just enough oxygen to make black spots dance in my vision.The memory of his eyes, cold, merciless, and promising death, makes my stomach clench.
“Get in your car,” the taller prospect orders, his hand resting casually on the gun at his hip.“We’re following you to the county line.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.My gun’s gone.Slaughter took it like it was a toy he was confiscating from a child.The humiliation burns almost as much as the fear.
They watch as I slide behind the wheel of my beat-up Camaro, the engine sputtering to life on the second try.In my rearview mirror, I see them mounting their bikes, the Devil Souls patches on their cuts catching the midday sun.My hands shake as I put the car in gear.
The drive to the county line takes twenty minutes.Twenty minutes of sweating, of glancing in my mirror every few seconds to see the prospects following at a steady distance, of my mind racing through what just happened and what it means.
Slaughter killed Riggs.The Devil Souls enforcer murdered my cousin, and now he’s threatening me.Protecting Daphne and that faggot doctor like they’re his family.
When I reach the “Now Leaving Devil Souls Territory” sign—not the official county marker, but everyone knows what it means—I pull over.The prospects stop behind me, engines idling as they watch me from behind mirrored sunglasses.
“Remember what Slaughter said,” one calls out.“Don’t come back.Ever.”
I nod again, waiting until they turn their bikes around and head back toward town before I let out the breath I’ve been holding.My whole body trembles with rage and fear and something else.A desperate need to make someone pay.
I pull back onto the road, driving another ten miles before pulling into the parking lot of a run-down gas station.My phone feels heavy in my pocket as I cut the engine.I stare at the cracked windshield for a long moment, gathering my courage before making the call I know will change everything.
Mom answers on the third ring, her voice tight with the perpetual worry that’s aged her ten years since Riggs died.
“Jason?Where are you?You were supposed to be home an hour ago.”
“Mom,” I say, my voice cracking.“I need to talk about Riggs.”
A pause, then rustling as she presumably hands over the phone.My uncle’s voice comes through, hard and flat like it’s been since we got word of his son’s death.
“What about Riggs?”he demands without preamble.
