Page 31 of Wade’s Wrath

“To tell us what you know,” he said.

“And then what happens?” she asked.

“Then you decide what you want to do next,” he said.

She searched his face. “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” he breathed.

“What if what I want causes problems for your club?” she asked.

“That's Butcher's headache,” he admitted.

Butcher’s voice carried from farther down the hallway. “I heard that.” Wade smiled as Harlow laughed quietly. Then she surprised him by reaching for his hand. Wade went completely still as her fingers slipped between his. Her hand was small, warm, and slightly trembling.

She didn't look at him. “Just until we get inside.”

Wade stared down at their joined hands, and something primitive settled inside his chest. “Sure.” He was lying, because the second she touched him, Wade knew he wasn't going to want to let go of her.

They walked into church together, and every man at the table noticed their joined hands. Wade ignored them—mostly. Butcher sat at the head of the table. Ripper took his usual chair, and the others watched Harlow with varying degrees of curiosity. Wade pulled out the chair beside his, and Harlow sat. Only then did she release his hand, and he immediately missed her touch. Fuck his life.

Butcher cleared his throat. “Let's get started.” The room quieted. “Harlow, Wade told us some of what you found.”

Her gaze snapped toward Wade. “Not everything,” Wade said. “Just enough.”

She nodded, and Butcher leaned forward. “We need you to tell us anything you remember about Frank Donnelly's files.”

Harlow inhaled slowly. “There were photographs.”

“What kind?” Butcher asked.

“They were of women,” she breathed.

“How many women?” Butcher questioned.

“I don't know. A lot,” she said.

“Were they all adults?” he asked.

She hesitated, and Wade's stomach dropped. “Harlow?” he breathed.

“Not all of them,” she admitted. The room changed, and every Savage Bastard went still. Wade felt rage settle cold in his gut.

Butcher's voice hardened. “How young were they?”

“I don't know.” Harlow swallowed. “One looked maybe sixteen.”

“Fuck,” Ripper muttered. Wade's hands curled into fists beneath the table. Frank Donnelly was already a dead man, but the bastard just didn't know it yet.

“Could you tell where the photos were taken?” Butcher asked.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I could tell where a few of the photos were taken.”

“Where?” he asked.

“I didn't recognize most of them,” she admitted.

“Anything you did recognize?” he asked.