Page 310 of Property of Whiskey

“Then kissed me?”

“Maybe.”

“Worth it then.”

She rolls her eyes and climbs onto the Harley behind me.

Her arms circle my waist. Gets me every damn time. I start the bike, and Mercy House begins shrinking in the mirror as we pull away.

We didn’t find the girls or learn exactly what happened to Cider. We still don’t know whether Montgomery understood what his money eventually helped fund, who the scarred woman in the photograph is, or whether Mercy was just a house, a woman, or both.

But we found something.

The new piece is Kaylee. A living survivor put Crowley inside the room with girls who couldn’t leave, more than once. Now we also know he remembers what happened to Amos twelve years ago, knows Sophie is involved, knows about Wren, and knows we’re finally getting close enough to make him come looking for us.

That oughta scare me. We got evidence and a direction, and one smug preacher just made the mistake of threatening my woman and my kid in the same fucking day.

Crowley thinks God makes good camouflage.

Fine.

Kings know how to hunt in the dark.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Twila

The next morning, putting my uniform back on feels stranger than taking it off ever did. Badge, service pistol, cuffs, two spare magazines, radio, body cam. Hair pulled tight. Duty belt heavy around my hips. Deputy Dix stares back at me from Whiskey’s bathroom mirror like she hasn’t spent the last several days sleeping in an outlaw biker’s bed, chasing mutant deer through the woods, and making increasingly questionable life choices involving a man who once put her in handcuffs for reasons that had nothing to do with sex.

I straighten my collar.

Whiskey leans against the bathroom doorway behind me with his arms folded, watching.

Of course.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

His gaze travels slowly down my uniform before coming back to my face.

“You got a problem with the badge?”

“Several.”

“Name one.”

“You look too fucking good in it.”

I roll my eyes. “Other problem.”

“Means some asshole gets to tell you what to do.”

I turn toward him. “That bother you because you’re jealous?”

“Bothers me because I’m supposed to be the asshole telling you what to do.”