Page 13

13

In the Dark

I wake instantly at the scrape of boot against floorboard, eyes still closed, every muscle ready. Years of living on knife’s edge had trained my body to go from sleep to combat-ready in seconds. The familiar metallic tang of gun oil and leather—Edge. Fuck.

When I finally open my eyes, the sight twists something inside me. Naomi bound to a chair, Edge’s knife pressed against the fragile hollow of her throat. Her eyes wide, that familiar fear-but-not-fear I’d seen too many times before.

“Smart,” Edge says, catching my stillness. His voice has changed over the years—harder, emptier. “I’d hate to slip.”

“Let her go.” My voice betrays nothing of the calculations racing through my mind. Three steps to Edge. Two seconds to cross the distance. One blade that could end everything.

Edge’s laugh carries no humor. Not the man who’d once stood at my sister’s side. This was the club’s enforcer—the man who’d helped me bury the bodies of those we’d hunted together over fifteen years.

“That’s not how this works, kid.” He moves around Naomi, keeping the knife steady at her throat. The casual confidence of a man who’s killed too many times to count. “Imagine my surprise when I came all this way looking for you that I found your old lady stuffed in a trunk along the way.”

Misty. Fucking Misty. I watch Naomi flinch at the mention, her eyes narrowing. She should have finished the job—one of the many things we have in common.

“She told me a hell of a story,” Edge continues. His eyes have gone flat, the way they do right before he ends someone. “One that don’t quite match the shit I heard before.” His gaze locks onto mine. “So, here’s how this is gonna go. You’re both gonna talk. And you better pray I like what I hear.”

He yanks the gag from Naomi’s mouth. The sound of her gasping breath hits something bruised inside me—something I’d thought died fifteen years ago when I believed I’d lost her.

I catch her eyes, giving a sharp warning shake of my head. For once, she listens. Smart girl.

Edge moves with the efficient brutality I’ve seen him use on too many enemies. He hauls me from the bed and secures me to a chair facing Naomi. The zip ties cut into my wrists—amateur mistake. Edge should know better than to use plastic on someone who’d spent years perfecting the art of escape.

“Start talking.” Edge plants himself between us, knife dancing between his fingers. The same fingers that had once helped me track down the men who’d taken her.

“Misty’s lying.” Naomi’s voice is raw, the sound scraping against something in my chest.

“Yeah?” Edge’s eyebrow arches. “Then tell me why.”

I watch her glance at me, weighing how much to reveal. The week of vengeance? The scars she’d carved into my flesh that mirrored her own? The way we’d fucked surrounded by the bodies of her tormentors? Some truths even the club wouldn’t stomach.

“She’s been playing both sides,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the knife Edge keeps twirling. “Using the club for protection while feeding information to the Jackals.”

“And why would she do that?” Edge’s eyes narrow, assessing every twitch, every tell.

“Because she wanted me,” I reply simply. The truth was always the best lie. “Has since we were teenagers. But Naomi was always in the way.”

“Until she wasn’t,” Naomi adds, bitterness etching each word.

Edge’s expression betrays nothing—a skill I’d respected before it was turned on me. “Misty says you orchestrated everything, brother. That night in the bayou. The robbery. Said you needed Honey out of the way because she was gonna rat to the feds.”

I feel my face harden into stone, even as something cold slithers through my gut. Honey had always been too good for this life. Too straight. Too clean. But I’d never—

“That’s bullshit,” Naomi spits, fire in her eyes. Even now, after everything, she defends me. The absurdity of it nearly makes me laugh.

“Is it?” Edge’s voice drops to that quiet register that chills blood. “Because what I see adds up with Misty’s story. You left your old man to rot in prison, took over the club. Now your supposedly dead girlfriend shows up looking for revenge. Why would she come back at all if she didn’t think you were responsible? Makes a hell of a lot more sense than your version.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I say, subtly working against the restraints, feeling the plastic give slightly. I notice Naomi shift, blocking Edge’s view of my hands. Perfect synchronicity, like we’d never been apart. “I’ve spent fifteen years hunting the men who took my kitten. You were there for some of it, Edge—helping me clean up the mess. You just never knew what the mess really was. Those twelve bodies we left behind? You think I’d do all that if I was the one who started it?”

I don’t add that Edge had been there for most of those kills. His loyalty had always been to the founding charter, not to me. I’d seen how the old guard watched me—never quite trusting, never quite believing. My father’s shadow stretching too long.

Edge’s eyes flicker, just for a second. Like he’s running the math on all those old jobs—the ones he thought were about club retribution. Maybe he’s wondering now if he helped me cover a betrayal instead of avenge one. That’s Misty’s play—make him doubt himself. Make him doubt me.

“Twelve men who knew exactly where I was being held,” Naomi continues, her voice stronger now. “Men who somehow always got tipped off before Jace could reach me. Only a handful of people knew what he was planning each time.”

“And you think Misty was the leak?” Edge asks, skepticism dripping from every word.

“I know she was,” I reply, feeling the first zip tie begin to give. “But I can’t prove it. Not yet.”

Edge stares at me for a long moment, then rubs a hand over his jaw. The gesture so familiar it hurts—he’d done the same thing at Honey’s funeral. The funeral for an empty casket.

“Here’s the problem. I don’t give a damn who’s telling the truth.”

I feel Naomi tense, see the fear flash across her face. Across from me, I keep working the plastic ties, feeling them weaken.

“This is club business now,” Edge continues. “I’m taking this back to the main charter. Let the prez and the brothers decide what happens next. Until then? You sit tight.”

He turns toward the other room, toward the landline phone. I know what’s coming. The club isn’t known for mercy, especially not for traitors. Which is exactly what I’d be painted as.

The zip tie snaps, the sound masked by Edge’s retreating footsteps. I lock eyes with Naomi, see the fear there, the resignation. She thinks I’ll run. Save myself at her expense.

And why wouldn’t she? It would be the smart play. The self-preservation move. The kind of cold calculation that had kept me alive and in power for fifteen years.

But as I stand, reaching behind to find the knife she’d used to carve our shared history into my flesh, I know I’m not leaving without her. Not again. I was many things, all of them bad, but from the moment I first saw Naomi, I was hers. The condemnation of it pissed me off then as much as it thrilled me now.

I slice through her restraints, feeling her fingers flex as blood rushes back into them. Her eyes widen slightly, surprise flashing across her face. Did she really think I’d abandon her to Edge? After everything?

Footsteps from the other room—Edge returning. No time for sentiment.

My hand closes around hers, our fingers interlocking over the wounds she’d given me, the penance I’d paid. I tug her toward the window—her escape route, her freedom during my captivity. Now our salvation.

The window pushes open with barely a sound, the night air hitting my face like a memory. Sixteen, waiting below Naomi’s window at the clubhouse, that electric thrill when she’d climb down to me. Before the blood. Before her knife. Before we became what we are now.

Edge’s motorcycle sits waiting, keys dangling from the ignition. Amateur mistake.

“Sloppy,” Naomi whispers, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.

I swing onto the bike with practiced ease, reaching back for her. “Come on.”

For a heartbeat, I think she might refuse. Choose whatever shreds were left of her humanity over the beautiful monster she’d carved into existence. Then her arms wrap around my waist, fingers pressing into the scars she’d left, claiming them, claiming me.

The engine roars to life, our position instantly betrayed. Dirt sprays as I gun it, taking the first turn too fast, feeling the bike lean dangerously before righting itself. Edge will follow. Edge always follows.

We need proof about Misty. Something concrete the club can’t ignore. Something that will save us both from club justice.

Naomi’s grip tightens around my waist, her body molded to mine, the knife—her knife—now tucked in my waistband. The blade that had cut my flesh had saved us both.

The cabin disappeared behind us as we raced toward whatever future monsters like us deserved. Behind us, I knew Edge was calling it in. The hunt was on. But hunters should be careful—sometimes their prey had sharper teeth.