Grim’s smirk vanished completely. Fish lifted his gaze from the pool table, attention sharpening like a blade.
Stone continued, “Couple of our guys spotted Reapers circling near County Road Twelve. Too close to our line.”
Rook’s jaw flexed. “They shouldn’t be anywhere near our territory.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” Stone agreed. “I reached out to their Pres Viper. No response.”
That landed heavy. The Reapers always responded, even if it was with attitude. Silence meant something was brewing.
Grim pushed off the table. “You want eyes on them?”
“Yeah,” Stone said. “You and Fish. Quiet recon. See if they’re sniffing around or setting up shop.”
Fish nodded once, slow and deliberate. “If they’re moving product again, we’ll know.”
Rook’s voice dropped, low and lethal. “Thought we shut down their expansion last year.”
“We did,” Stone said. “But men like them don’t stay buried. They wait. They rot. Then they crawl back out.”
Rook exhaled through his nose, the VP in him rising even through the storm in his chest. “Reapers in our territory is never a good thing.”
“No,” Stone said. “It’s not.”
A beat of silence passed, the kind that settled between them.
Then Stone’s gaze softened just enough to show he hadn’t forgotten the other storm brewing in the room.
“Now,” he said, voice shifting back to something quieter, “tell me what the hell happened.”
Rook didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because if he opened his mouth, everything inside him might come out: the anger, the hurt, the longing, the seven years of silence he’d never forgiven himself for.
Grim stepped closer. “You’re still in love with her. Fix it.”
Rook snapped. “I’m not…”
Stone cut him off, voice low. “Don’t lie to us.”
Rook’s chest tightened painfully. “I’m not in love with her.”
Grim raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like someone ripped your heart out and left it on the bakery floor?”
Rook’s fists curled. “Because she left.”
Stone’s expression softened, barely. “And you never stopped carrying that.”
Fish didn’t move, but his gaze lifted, steady and unblinking. “Some wounds don’t stay buried, brother.”
Rook looked away, jaw tight, breath uneven. He hated this. Hated being seen. Hated that they were right.
Stone stepped closer, voice dropping. “Take a Razor. Go up to the lake. Work it out before you tear yourself apart in here.”
Rook didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He shoved past them, boots hitting the gravel as he crossed the lot. No one followed. They all knew when to push and when to let a man break alone.
He fired up one of the club’s Razors, the engine snarling to life. The night air slapped against his face as he tore down the trail, mud spraying behind him, branches whipping past. The deeper he went into the woods, the quieter the world became: just the engine, the wind, and the storm still lingering in his chest.
