“If you like.” He wouldn’t. Mateo hated talking on the phone even more than Saint.

  Mateo snorted and hung up. I lowered Saint’s phone and stared at the cartoon unicorn he used as a lock screen. Pretty cute for our ferocious sergeant-at-arms, but it worked for Saint. If you knew, you knew.

  And he knew everything, apparently, cos wouldn’t you know, I followed him out of the hospital with a fucking smile on my face.

  When I’d righted my equilibrium, we spent the rest of the day training on the remote campsite he owned and sometimes lived on when the claustrophobic nature of club life overwhelmed him.

  It was a new thing—the open invitation he’d extended to me. And I wasn’t on my best form, but Saint was a patient man. He sparred with me for hours, until my frustration morphed into something else and I got the better of him, just once.

  He wasn’t coming back to the compound. I borrowed a beat-up hog from his collection and swung my leg over the saddle.

  Saint handed me a helmet. “Don’t eat dirt. I don’t want to fight Mateo to the death over yours.”

  “You think I’m gonna crash?”

  “I think you’re batshit crazy without supervision.”

  “Don’t say that in court, brother.”

  Saint rolled his eyes and turned away. I gunned the engine on the battered softail. It was rough and loud and spoke to me in ways that erased the fatigue in my muscles. The grit in my eyes. My blood family were horse people, but this . . . the speed, the torque. The power between my legs, it was home.

  I cast one last glance at Saint. “Hey, brother?”

  He spun around.

  I dipped my chin. “Thanks for calling him.”

  Saint smiled his slow smile. “You said you felt better when he was around.”

  He was gone again before I could answer.

  I revved the softail’s engine and peeled away, tearing down the dirt track that led to the main road and blasting into the traffic at the kind of speed that made Mateo wince. He was my favourite person in the world, but he drove like someone’s dad.

  Me? I rode like everything Saint had accused me of, and I made it back to the compound in record time.

  It was quiet, everyone busy with work. Only the old ladies milled around the yard, enjoying the summer sun. There were hang arounds too—younger girls looking for some biker dick. They’d get it too, just not from anyone I gave a flying shit about.

  I dodged an invitation for a cuppa and a blowjob and went upstairs.

  Rubi was asleep on my bed, pillow pulled over his head, a bottle of hardcore pain meds on the bedside table.

  I picked them up, scanning the label, wondering if Cam had caught up with him. Also, why he was in my room and not Nash’s?

  Then I heard the squeak of bed springs and a low, feminine moan, and figured not everyone was at work after all.

  He’s with Orla.

  At least, I hoped he was, or we were all in trouble.

  I left Rubi to sleep and ducked into Mateo’s room. He didn’t spend much time in there—we were co-dependent as fuck for two people who weren’t together—so it didn’t smell much like him. I sat on the edge of his bed and stretched my aching muscles, enjoying the burn from training with Saint. He’d watched me like a hawk, like Mateo watched me, but he’d worked me hard, and I felt good.

  Knackered, but good.

  I lay back on Mateo’s bed, staring at the bubbled ceiling, letting the best kind of fatigue seep into my bones. If I’d been in my own bed, I might’ve slept. But Mateo’s room was distracting.

  Cracking my neck, I sat up again, ignoring the buzz of my phone in my pocket. It was Cam. At five o’clock on any peacetime evening, it always was, letting us know where to come for dinner if we were hungry.

  I was hungry. But I was nosy too. I got up and poked around Mateo’s room. Aside from the patchy white walls—filled and sanded one too many times after his volatile fists had got the better of him—there wasn’t much to it. A battered bed, a set of drawers scarred by his boots. A bedside table I knew contained a bible I’d never seen him touch and a Real Madrid shirt I’d never seen him wear.

  On the floor were a scattering of Estrella bottle caps, half a dozen empty Rizla packets, and . . . what the fuck is that?

  I crouched and scooped up the sparkly thing that had caught my eye.

  It was a glittery gold hair tie.

  Frowning, I looped it over my finger and stood, holding it up to the light. Caught in the metal join was a long, wavy black hair that definitely wasn’t Ivy’s.

  Orla’s, then.

  Right. Because our fearsome queen was all about the fucking glitter. Not the red lips, leather jeans, and biker boots.

  Nah. This wasn’t hers. A hook-up then? But that didn’t fit either. Mateo disappeared on sexcapades on a regular basis, but he never brought girls up here. No one did. Only Cam had that privilege, and that clearly wasn’t happening anymore.

  Chill the fuck out. It’s a hair band, not a fucking thong. But even if it had been, the sense that I had no right to feel as sick as I did was a cold, spiked wave that washed over me, eclipsing the buzz I’d brought home from Camp Saint.

  It was a hair tie. It could’ve been anyone’s. Hell, it was probably Rubi’s. My biggest brother wore pink boxers and purple socks to mafia meetings.

  So why the hell did my gut say it wasn’t?

  Your gut is broken, remember?

  Severed.

  Maybe they’d put it back together wrong.

  The blare of the landing intercom spared me from the gruesome image creeping into my brain. I shoved the hair tie in my pocket and stepped out to answer it, shutting my bedroom door as I passed so whatever or whoever it was wouldn’t wake Rubi.

  It was Folk calling from the gate. “Incoming. Decoy’s ex. She’s got the girl with her and she looks wild.”

  Shit. Decoy’s ex-wife was horrendous. Like, cartoon villain unpleasant. No brother had the patience for her bullshit, and Decoy wasn’t here, which meant . . . yup. I was up.

  I took a moment to tidy myself up. Then I jogged downstairs and outside in time to meet Lauren Greene as she stormed across the yard, tugging Ivy behind her.

  “Whoa.” I intercepted her. “Hey, Ivy. Your dad isn’t here.”

  Lauren stepped in front of Ivy, blocking her pale, tear-stained face from me. “Where the hell is he, then? He was supposed to pick Ivy up from the childminder two hours ago.”

  Lies. Decoy ran his life like a military operation. There was zero chance he’d scheduled a haulage run on a day he was supposed to have Ivy. Hell, he had Cam’s permission to cancel business if Lauren fucked him around. Which she did so often it was almost boring.

  Except, it wasn’t boring because it messed with Decoy’s head and traumatised Ivy every time her mum announced that her dad didn’t give a shit about her.

  I hate this bitch. I forced a bland smile to my face. “He’s away working, Lauren. I’m sure it’s an honest mix-up. If you come to the office, we can call him and straighten things out.”

  Lauren cast a baleful glare at the office. “Is Nash here?”

  I shrugged. Orla would take Lauren’s eye if she pushed her tits at Nash again, but being caught in a lie was grief I didn’t need. “Come inside. I’ll make the call.”

  For a fleeting moment, I had her. Then Nash appeared on the clubhouse steps, shirtless and holding Orla’s hand, and Lauren’s next-level bitch face reappeared.

  “No. I’m not coming inside with you so you can brainwash my daughter into thinking I’m the bad guy and Seth is fucking perfect. If he gave a shit about us, he’d have been where he was supposed to be this afternoon, not gone for days at a time when we need him.”

  “You knew he was away then?”

  Lauren narrowed her death stare. “I know he’s chosen to be somewhere else all week, but I was expecting him to be available today. Ivy was expecting him.”

  Without warning, she reached back and yanked Ivy forward. “Tell Daddy’s little friend how long you waited at Suzie’s house? How you were crying your eyes out when Mummy had to come and get you?”

  Head down and trembling, Ivy said nothing. But her distress killed me, and I knew the only way out of this was to give her twatastic mother what she wanted.

  Attention.

  Validation.

  A fucking scene.

  I’m sorry, Ivy. I stepped back and wove my arms across my chest. “Look, he’s not here, okay? And he’s not going to be until tomorrow at the earliest, so you need to take yourself off club property and go home.”

  “I’m not waiting until tomorrow to speak to my daughter’s father.”

  “He’s got two kids, Lauren. Why aren’t you dragging Ben here for this party piece too?”

  “Bring my boy here?” Lauren cackled without humour. “So he can grow up to be a bottom bitch like you? No thanks.”

  Bottom bitch. Shitty words from the shittiest human. Anger clenched my fucking soul. Not for me—I didn’t give a shit what Decoy’s ex-wife assumed about my non-existent sex life—but for my friend, his innocent kids, and every questioning brother in earshot. My fury burned bright, threatening the gate that kept my deadly temper locked up.

  Don’t.

  My arms fell to my sides, and I took a breath, searching for calm. For the level-headed mellow my brothers relied on me for. But getting shanked and watching them go down like fucking dominos had depleted my armoury.

  Fuck this bitch.

  Fuck her—

  “Easy now.” Locke stepped between us. Like Nash, he was tall and blond, but he was fully dressed, his laddish grin firmly in place. “This don’t have to get lairy. Lauren, is it? Let me walk you to your car and get your tyres checked while you’re here, yeah? Make sure you’re safe on the road.”

  Lauren blinked. She had a black belt in bullshit, but she wasn’t prepared for Locke’s charm. For the easy way he stepped to her and took her thorny fucking elbow, scooped up Ivy, and turned them back the way they’d come.

  Ivy met my gaze over Locke’s broad shoulder.

  Her bewilderment stoked the anger roiling inside. I wanted to snatch her, take her inside, and keep her safe and happy until her dad came home.

  It broke me that Locke’s lackadaisical charisma was our only option.

  Mateo would let me burn Lauren down.

  Fuck, he’d pass me the match.

  Did that make us soulmates or a ticking time bomb?

  As Locke disappeared to wherever Lauren had left her car, I had no idea, and the desire to find out deserted me.

  Simmering, I retreated to the bar.

  Nash was already there, dressed and growling into his phone.

  Orla set a bottle of rum in front of me, the only booze I could drink right now without hurling my guts up.

  She racked up glasses. Uncorked the bottle and poured. I watched the amber liquid flow and thought of Mateo, but he wasn’t like Saint was to Cam. Or Nash to Orla. Mateo was fuel to my fire and my blood bubbled hotter, nerves zipping with violence that had no place at the clubhouse bar.

  “Simmer down, son.”

  As if he’d ever say that and mean it. Mateo liked angry things.

  And he loved me.

  I threw back the rum Orla had passed me. She poured another and I necked three before I was chill enough to speak. “That bird is gonna cause us problems.”

  Orla tapped her blood-red nails on the beer-stained wood between us. “Nash won’t let me boot her in the vag.”

  Nash was a sensible man, but Orla’s sentiment suited me better. “She’s damaging those kids with her hate. When did Decoy last see Ben?”

  “Last month. For five fucking minutes at his after-school football match, until Lauren told the teachers she had a restraining order.”

  “She doesn’t, right?”

  I should’ve known the answer, but I’d been distracted herding Crows, and now Locke was outside doing my job for me. Get your head in the game.

  “No restraining order,” Orla said. “Yet. She’d totally do it, though. Decoy said she’s still raging that he left her. That she’ll do anything to make his life miserable. Why are people like that? Is it so hard to just fucking love someone?”

  When someone was as loveable as Nash McGovern, I doubted it was hard at all. But Orla knew as well as I did that love was noise and pain and joy, and none of it came fucking easy.

  The door behind me opened.

  Locke slipped into the bar and stopped a few feet away, giving council members and Cam’s sister the respect of a little space.

  Orla waved him forward and slid him a rum. “I’ll keep them coming all night long for what you did today.”

  Beside her, Nash drilled her a look I couldn’t decipher.

  Locke barely blinked.

  He took the rum and knocked it back. “You’re gonna have trouble with her.”

  The near perfect echo of words already spoken made me angry all over again. I wanted more rum, but I knew my limits. A joint would calm me down. I let the others shoot the shit while I took inventory of all the places Mateo hid his weed. We didn’t keep large stocks of it on site in case we got raided, but there was enough of it around that I didn’t have to worry about going without.

  “How do you know so much about divorce?” Nash said.

  To me, the question felt sudden and out of context, but as I dialled back into the conversation, Locke gave an easy shrug. “Been there, done that, and got the shitshow T-shirt. Best thing you can do with an ex like that is be nice as pie all day long. Kids grow up, man. I never wanted to be the one they remembered being a cunt to their mum.”

  Nash dropped his elbows on the bar, muscles bunching, wavy hair flopping into his face. “How old are your kids?”

  “Sixteen and twelve.”

  “You should bring them around.”

  Locke laughed. “You think a sixteen-year-old girl wants to hang around with her dad? Nah, she’s out vaping and chasing boys. And my son is mad for football and Fortnite. Don’t see him one week to the next sometimes. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  He boshed another shot, then saluted Nash and left. Orla drifted away too, leaving me with Nash.

  The Rebel Kings VP was a chilled-out dude, his easy-going nature more natural than the mellowness I forced on myself. But he was tense now. Brooding. And definitely not chipper enough for a dude that just—probably—got laid.

  I nudged his arm. “What weighs you down, brother?”

  Nash took a swig from the rum bottle, fair brows drawing together. “Loose ends, man. Sometimes I think I’ve got a handle on them all, then something like this happens and I feel like I’m missing something huge.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be stewing about it, would I?”

  Probably not. Nash didn’t ruminate much. It was what made him the perfect righthand man for our deep-thinking president. If Cam lost his head, Nash was always there in the wings, steady and reasonable, keeping the ship on course.

  Before I’d understood the bond between Cam and Saint, and Nash and Orla, I’d wondered if they’d have made good lovers. If the natural balance between them would translate to flawless alchemy.

  Yin and yang.

  Fire and water.

  Mateo was a Sagittarius. I was a Leo. Fire and fire, no natural balance there. Did that mean we were fucking cursed?

  Only if you’re mapping your life out according to the horoscopes in the back of the Whitness Citizen.

  I left Nash alone with his thoughts and went to the chapel to dig out a two-inch blunt from the stash we kept for meetings where tempers ran high.

  Mateo’s temper, mostly, but every brother needed the help from time to time, even Alexei.

  I found what I needed and went outside again, crossing the yard to the residence. There was a drainpipe around the back with perfect handholds to climb onto the roof. The sun had started to sink, casting a golden glow over the whole compound. With rum in my blood and a joint wedged between my lips, it was the only alone time I ever craved.

  The back of the compound was deserted, like it had been the day I’d been stabbed. Rubi had paved over the bloodstained dirt and etched a crude sketch of the Rebel King insignia into the wet cement. At some point, someone had helped Ivy pour glitter into the grooves. Pink glitter, naturally.

  Not gold.

  “Embry!”

  I had one foot on the pipe, hands stretching skyward to haul myself up to the roof. With a sigh, I dropped down and spun around.

  Nash jogged up on me, phone in hand, face drawn tight. “Need you, brother. We got trouble on the road.”

  9

  MATEO

  I skulked in the shadows, hiding and watching the fed lead Decoy to a panda car, our empty lorry abandoned on the hard shoulder while I looped around it and took cover behind an SOS call box.

  My knees hit the tarmac and with the impact came fury, laced with the blistered anxiety I’d carried for days and days now, ever since Nash had cornered me about the calls to the yard in my name.

  “. . . she said please a lot in an accent like your ma’s.”

  Fuckfuckfuck. The feds steered Decoy into the back of their motor and shut the doors, caging him inside while they sat in the front. Chances were, they’d let him go in a matter of minutes, but what if they didn’t? What if they carted him off and lay in wait for whoever came to claim the HGV?

  It couldn’t be me. It was gospel that me and Saint had to stay as far from the feds as humanly possible. We did the dirty work. Any hint of our prints or DNA in the system and it all came tumbling down.

  It was why my phone was turned off in my bag. If this shit went south, Decoy would have to call it in himself. I was incognito right now.

  Untraceable.

  Unreachable. More panic flared up, sharper than before. The second phone was switched on, but it remained as silent and blank as it had been since I’d fired a pleading text into the ether.

  Answer, for fuck’s sake.

  The panda car’s engine purred to life. A fed got out and returned to the HGV to lock it and slap a police aware sticker on the windshield. Fuck, they were taking him in. But for what? It was bullshit. Decoy was cleaner than clean. He had to be for his boy.