Page 2 of Dreadful

Widowmakers spill into the warehouse in staggered lines, black leather and worn denim, patches flashing beneath the weak fluorescent lighting and the moonlight spilling through the broken windows.

Abel Lawrence, the Widowmakers's president, walks near the center of them with the same relaxed confidence he had sitting in my living room the night before while Lola and I silently debated the consequences of putting a bullet through his head.

Not that we’ve ever done anything like that before.

Ironically, if we had, I probably would’ve called the man behind me to help clean it up. Because outside of my brother and sister, the only person I trust to help me bury a body without asking a single question is Rafe Calloway. Gage would help—and maybe Cruz in the right circumstance—but they would've had questions.

A grin pulls at Abel's mouth. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I tighten my grip on the gun but force my hand to stay loose at my side. “That’s because you don’t fucking know me.”

The laugh that leaves him is low and full, like this is all so amusing. I catch the soft drag of Rafe's boot shifting against the concrete, the sound half-buried beneath the idle noise of Abel's men fanning out around him.

Abel’s eyes flick briefly toward him before settling back on me. “Not yet, I don't.”

Something about the way he says it makes the sweat along the back of my neck turn cold.

I love you.

The words crash through me again, rattling around my chest like loose marbles. I ignore it.

“Where’s my brother?”

“Yeah, alright.” Abel jerks his head to the side without taking his eyes off me.

The warehouse doors shudder. Beckett comes through them sideways, one of the Widowmakers’ fists knotted in the back of his jacket, and he has to plant his foot hard to keep from going down. He straightens immediately, shoulders squaring like it's reflex.

My chest unknots by about half.

His bottom lip is split. There's bruising high on one cheekbone, already purpling, and his shirt is torn at the collar—but his hands are balled at his sides with the particular tightness of someone who has been counting every second until he could hit something. Alive, then. Furious, which means fine.

The sound of engines swells and fades at the edge of my attention. I don't let my eyes move from my brother.

“Bells.” His steps quicken as he strides toward me.

“You good?” Are you seriously hurt? That's what my eyes are asking as my gaze roams over his face, snagging on the dried blood near his hairline. Rage curls low and hot in my stomach at the sight of it, and I tamp it down.

“I'm fine.”

My gaze narrows on his for a second, trying to read between the letters of his clipped response. But unfortunately, Beck and I never quite nailed the silent conversation ability like Lola and I have. Basic conversation only. So I have to trust that he's okay enough.

The warehouse doors groan open and another wave of men spills into the space. My spine goes cold, a visceral chill that has nothing to do with the draft from the broken windows. Five becomes ten, then fifteen—leather kuttes and hard eyes multiplying in the dim light until the air itself feels thick with threat. The fragile outline of a plan I’d been clinging to dissolves completely, like a chalk drawing in the rain.

I almost laugh, a hollow, airless sound caught in my throat. All these men. For us. As if my sister and I are some kind of army instead of two women standing in a drafty warehouse with a man on his knees at our back.

One man keeps walking until he stops next to Abel. His kutte is different—all the newcomers’ are. There's something about his face I can't quite catch, like a word sitting just behind my teeth.

Behind me, Rafe laughs. The sound is quiet, sharp enough to scrape across my skin. I glance over my shoulder at him. The line of his jaw has gone tight, a muscle feathering beneath his skin. Clarity settles over my shoulders like a cement scarf. They didn't send all these men for Lola and I—it's for Rafe.

"What's this?" I look at Abel, jerking my chin toward the man beside him.

The newcomer only has eyes for Rafe. His gaze trained on him with the patient, unhurried stillness of someone who has been waiting a very long time to be exactly where he is standing. A president patch sits on the right side of his kutte.

I want to step in front of Rafe, block his view of him so bad that my toes are twitching with movement. But I grit my teeth and force myself to stay still.

“Well,” the newcomer drawls, whistling. “Would you look at that.”

Rafe laughs again. The sound of his laugh rumbles across the warehouse, low and caustic enough to make the hair along my arms lift. “Should I be offended that you two idiot motherfuckers thought two different clubs was enough?”