Page 6 of My Older Biker

"When Vigil finally showed up, I watched Tate shoot one of them in the shoulder. Watched the other one run. Watched my father beat a man unconscious six feet from where I was sitting. So yeah, I know what this world is. I know the club comes first. I know you're violent when you need to be." I take another step. "And I'm still standing here."

His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Want something for myself when it costs other people."

"Then maybe—"

His phone rings.

The sound slices through the kitchen. Dean glances at the screen and his entire face changes. Every soft edge hardens.

He answers. "Yeah."

I watch him listen. Watch his jaw tighten, watch his free hand curl into a fist at his side. The way he's breathing changes—slower, more controlled, like he's forcing his body into a specific shape.

"Where." Pause. "When." Pause. "How." Another pause. "Who."

Each word is flat and precise. No inflection. No emotion bleeding through.

"I'm coming," he says, and hangs up.

When he looks at me his eyes are different. Distant. Already somewhere else.

"What happened?" I ask, even though I already know it's bad.

"Perry's dead. Marrow killed him this morning."

Perry.

The name hits me and for a second my mind goes blank. Then it floods.

Last Thanksgiving. Perry brought chocolate chip cookies his sister made. Set them on the counter at Dad's house and stood there looking awkward until I tried one and told him they were good. Then he smiled, relieved, and said his sister would be happy to know that. Later when I was cleaning up, he told me he was proud of me for moving out. For building something of my own. He said it quiet, sincere, like he understood what it cost to step away from my father's orbit. Like he saw me as a person, not just Roan's daughter.

He was thirty-four years old. He had a sister who baked him cookies. He came to Sunday dinners and never talked over anyone and always helped with dishes.

Now he's in the morgue.

"When?" My voice sounds strange.

"Chuck found him about an hour ago. Outside his apartment."

"Jesus." My throat is tight. "Are you—"

"I have to go to the clubhouse." He's already moving toward the hallway. "We're planning retaliation."

"Should I leave?" The question comes out before I think it through. "Go back to my apartment?"

He stops. Turns to look at me. "No. Stay. Please."

That one word changes everything.

"Okay," I say. "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know. We need to coordinate, then move."

"Move where?"