Page 122 of Breaking His Exile

The name landed. Evander’s hand found Rainey’s under the table. His fingers closed around hers. He watched River’s face, braced for whatever came next—the collapse, the rage, the particular broken silence of a man whose trust had been weaponized against his sister.

River laughed.

The sound startled everyone. He tipped his head back, his wild curls falling across his forehead, and he laughed like someone had told the best joke of his life. Not performative. Not defensive. Genuine.

“Played me?” River wiped his eyes. “She didn’t play me, man. I handed her the playbook. Showed her the security cameras. Walked her through every blind spot on the property. Taught her how to hot-wire the side-by-side, for Christ’s sake.” He reached for his water glass. “I’m swearing off dating. Effective immediately. One-night stands only from here on out. It’s safer for everyone.”

The table absorbed this. Then X grinned.

“One-night stands require game, compa. You got game?”

“I’ve got devastating charm.”

“You’ve got a horse named Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” Jax said. Dry. Deadpan. “That’s not charm. That’s a cry for help.”

River threw a dinner roll at him. Jax caught it without looking.

“At least my horse doesn’t stare at me like he’s calculating how much I’d fetch at auction,” River said.

“Rook doesn’t stare. He contemplates.”

“He contemplates which part of you to bite first.”

Walker cleared his throat. The table quieted. Not from fear—from respect. The older man looked at River, really looked at him, and something passed between them that Evander couldn’t name but recognized anyway. The particular exchange of a mentor watching his charge find his footing after a fall.

“Eat your potatoes,” Walker said.

River ate his potatoes.

Brandt set his fork down. The movement was deliberate. The table shifted—not dramatically, but the air changed. Federal presence. Official business.

“Mal Granger and Gemma Robinett remain at large,” Brandt said. His voice had that measured quality again, the one that didn’t waste syllables. “Highway patrol has the motorcycle description. Gemma’s injuries are significant—facial trauma, possible eye damage. They’ll need medical attention soon. Mal won’t take her to a hospital. He’ll find someone off-book.”

Rainey’s hand tightened in Evander’s. Her fingers were warm. Steady.

“There’s another witness,” Brandt continued. “Sylvie Granger. Mal’s sister. Rainey helped her escape the clubhouse the night everything went sideways. She’s been off-grid since. The feds are looking for her. I intend to find her first.”

The kitchen went quiet. The wood stove popped. General Mayhem strutted past the doorway, his comb swinging, apparently unimpressed by federal manhunts.

Rainey spoke. Her voice came out clear. Level. The voice of a woman who had survived worse than dinner table conversations about motorcycle clubs.

“I hope you find her,” she said. “I’m afraid for her. Mal won’t stop. Not now. Not after what happened at the turnout.”

Brandt held her gaze. Something moved behind his eyes—not warmth, exactly. Something closer to recognition. The look of a man who had spent his career standing between witnesses and the people who wanted them dead, and who understood, on a level deeper than procedure, what that cost.

“I’ll find her,” he said.

The meal continued. Noise returned. X told a story about Troubadour that involved a water trough, three tourists, and a moment of equine performance art that had somehow gone viral. Jonah countered with a story about King herding goats into the bunkhouse. Bear rolled his eyes. Johanna smiled. Walker listened, his weathered face relaxed in a way Evander had rarely seen it, his hand resting on Johanna’s where it lay on the tablecloth.

Evander watched Rainey. The bruise at her temple had darkened to a deep purple that spread toward her hairline. The zip tie marks stood out red against her skin. She laughed at X’s story, her head tipped back, her throat working, and the sound of it did something to Evander’s chest that his cracked ribs were in no condition to handle.

She caught him looking. Her eyes met his. Held. Something passed between them that required no words and tolerated none.

They needed air.

She squeezed his hand under the table. Once. He nodded.

They slipped away while X was mid-story, his hands flying, his Spanish thickening with each embellishment. Nobody stopped them. Nobody needed to. The door closed behind them, and the cold Montana night wrapped around them like a blanket, and the mountains stood black against a sky so full of stars it hurt to look at.