Page 5 of Desert Loyalties

MANDRAKE

I give her as long as she needs.

It wasn’t easy, telling her something I’ve barely let myself remember, let alone say out loud. But it felt right. Maybe for the first time in years saying it didn’t make me feel weak. It didn’t make me feel small. It just… made me human.

When I first came to the Horsemen, I was eighteen, angry, and already hardened by a system that didn't give a damn if I lived or died. They didn’t coddle me here.

No one sat me down for therapy or asked about my past. They threw me into grunt work, barked orders, and made me earn my place.

And that worked for me. Talking didn’t. So, I shoved the pain down deep.

Locked it up in a box, wrapped it in barbed wire, and buried it.

That box held more than just grief.

It held the fact that from seven to eighteen, I had nobody.

Not a soul in the damn world that would’ve noticed if I disappeared.

The only person I had left… well I was a burden, even to her, so I pushed her away.

That kind of loneliness isn’t just painful, it’s bone-deep.

It settles in your marrow and tells you you’re not worth keeping.

You learn not to expect birthdays or warmth or even a decent meal.

You learn to keep your mouth shut and your fists ready. You learn not to hope.

It made me bitter. Made me push the decent homes away when they did come around.

By the time I figured out that maybe I didn’t want to be angry all the damn time, it was too late.

I’d been labelled. A delinquent. A problem.

A kid that would age out of the system and probably end up another headline.

Then came the club. And for the first time, I belonged somewhere.

I glance over at Skye. She’s staring at nothing, her fingers twisted in her lap, head tilted up like she’s holding back tears.

She breathes deep, and I know she’s about to give me something raw. Something she hasn’t shared with anyone here. Maybe not with anyone, period.

"My mom died when I was born," she says, voice thin but steady. “Actually—on the day I was born. Placenta previa. She died giving birth to me.”

She swallows hard.

“She’d already had three healthy kids. But I…” she hesitates, and her voice breaks, “I killed her.”

I want to tell her that’s not true. That it wasn’t her fault. That babies don’t kill their mothers. But something in her expression tells me this is her truth. Right now, she doesn’t need comfort. She needs someone to listen.

So, I shut up and do just that.

“My father didn’t blame me,” she says quietly. “He loved me. That’s what my grandparents always said. That he held me and cried and promised to raise me right. But it was his mother, my paternal grandmother, who thought I was… wrong.”

My fists curl.

“She said my spirit killed my mom’s. She believed it so hard that one day, she had a DNA test done. Somehow, she got a sample. I don’t know how. But it came back saying I wasn’t my father’s daughter. Biologically.”

Her voice hardens, distant now.

“She told him. Claimed she always knew. That she looked at me and just knew I wasn’t his. And he believed her.”

Skye’s eyes go far away. Like she’s back in that moment. Small. Abandoned.

“He sent me to live with my mom’s parents.

Said it was better for everyone. I was just a baby.

A few months old. From a mansion with a nanny to a trailer park on the edge of nowhere.

I don’t remember that time… him. My grandparents…

they barely stayed sober long enough to raise my mom.

By the time I got there, they drank booze for breakfast.”

She wipes her cheek, almost absently.

“It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone. And they all knew me. Knew I was the bastard who killed her mom. I went to school with my siblings. They didn’t speak to me.

Wouldn’t look at me. Other kids whispered, teased, called me trailer trash, homewrecker spawn and these are the nice ones. Teachers didn’t care, nobody cared.”

Her voice is shaking now, but her spine is straight. She’s lived this pain long enough to carry it well.

I feel it. Every word. Every memory. And I hate that she knows what it’s like to be that alone. That forgotten. That unloved.

I nod slowly, giving her space to let it all out. She’s not looking at me, she’s staring at the wall like it’s playing every memory she ever tried to bury.

She takes a shuddering breath. “This morning,” she says, voice flat but breaking around the edges. “I got an email. From my father.”

The word father sounds like acid in her mouth.

“Turns out his mother— that woman—has dementia. She’s in a home and apparently…

she confessed. Or more like bragged. Told a nurse how she planned it.

Said she was going to get a friend to run the DNA test and, when it came back negative, she’d use it to convince her son that I was a killer.

That I was evil. That my mom’s death was my fault. ”

My jaw clenches. I want to put my fist through a wall.

Skye’s voice gets thinner. “He said he’s been trying to track me down ever since. That a PI finally found my email through the college records. He wrote that he’d ‘love a chance to reconnect.’”

I don’t say anything yet. Just let the silence stretch so she knows she can keep going if she needs to.

She does.

“I used to dream about this,” she says. “When I was a kid, I’d lie in that creaky bunk bed and imagine him showing up. Saying it was all a mistake. Taking me away from the whispers and the pointing and the trailer with black mould in the bathroom.”

She looks down, blinking fast. “But it was never a mistake. Not to him.”

Then her voice lifts, furious, “Pissed,” she snaps. “I’m pissed , Drake.”

That’s the first time Skye has ever said my name.

“He owns hospitals. Hospitals . With an S . You’re telling me a man with that kind of money and resources couldn’t be bothered to run another fuckin’ test? No. He just believed her. Handed me over to two elderly alcoholics and never looked back.”

Her hands are shaking now, her knuckles white where they grip her thighs.

“He wanted to believe I wasn’t his. It was easier than facing the fact that he did blame me for his wife’s death.

And now— now —after I’ve fought for every scrap of dignity I have, after I built something for myself out of nothing, he wants to ‘reconnect’?

” Her laugh is bitter, sharp. “No. Fuck that. He doesn’t get to clear his conscience by checking in to make sure I’m breathing. I’m not his guilt project.”

I reach for her hand, not to pull or comfort, just to anchor. She lets me.

I speak low, steady. “You don’t owe him a damn thing.”

Her chin trembles, but she nods. Silent. Grateful, maybe.

“You’re not here because of him. You’re here because you survived,” I say. “Because you clawed your way through all the shit they threw at you and didn’t let it break you.”

She swipes at her eyes, still not crying. Tough as hell.

“I don’t need him,” she mutters.

“No,” I say. “But if you ever want someone to stand beside you while you tell him exactly what you just told me... I’m in.”

For a second, she says nothing. Just stares at me like she’s seeing something for the first time.

Then, slowly she leans in.

Her hand brushes my jaw, fingers trembling just a little, before she closes the distance.

Her lips touch mine like a question, like she’s not sure if this is real.

I answer her without words, tilting my head, deepening the kiss.

It's not rough or rushed, not the kind I’ve avoided before, no this is slow, consuming.

Skye tastes like salt and stubbornness and something sweeter I can’t name.

Her hand slides to my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.

I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her onto my lap, never breaking the kiss.

Her chest presses to mine, soft curves against hard edges, and I swear to God, I feel something shift in my damn chest.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against mine.

“Maybe we should go to bed,” I say, voice low, thick with everything I’m not saying.

She smiles, tired but teasing. “You going to let me test drive?”

I huff a laugh. “To sleep, horndog.”

We both stand, and I point her to the en suite bathroom. She disappears with a grateful sigh, and I dig through a drawer, pulling out a clean shirt, one of my soft old ones, worn thin with time. When she steps back out, face washed, hair loose around her shoulders, I toss it to her.

“Here,” I say.

She changes right there, in front of me.

Doing that sexy ass move of taking off her bra through the sleeves.

Goddamn she tests my restraint. The hem falls mid-thigh, swamping her in my scent.

Something tightens in my chest at the sight.

She's barefoot, fresh-faced, wearing my clothes and that somehow calms the beast in my chest. She’s mine.

We climb into bed, the sheets cool and the room quiet. I tuck her in against me, her back to my chest, my arm draped around her waist.

She reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together.

I lay there, holding her. Watching her breathe. Every inhale, soft and steady is proof she’s still here. That she chose to fall asleep in my bed, in my shirt, wrapped in me.

And all I can think about is murder.

Not in a poetic sense. Not some vague fantasy. No, I am thinking about how , step by step, I’d end the woman who made her feel like trash. Who turned a little girl into a scapegoat. Who made her believe she was unworthy of love.

Dementia or not, that old bitch knew what she was doing. She planned it. She twisted it. She stole Skye’s life. You don’t get to do that and walk into the soft fade of a memory you no longer own. There’s justice, and then there’s my kind of justice.

The club went legit.

I didn’t.

Not where Skye’s concerned. Not ever.

And yeah, I could’ve taken her tonight. She was in my bed. I felt her body melt into me. I could feel how badly she needed to be held, to be claimed. And fuck , it took every scrap of control I had not to bury myself inside her and let her feel what it’s like to be worshipped . But no.

I need her to come to me. Need her to crave me like air. Because once I crack her open, once I take her fully, there’s no walking away. No escape. She’ll see what I really am. What I’ve always been.

And she’ll either love it or burn in it.

But no one, no one , gets to hurt her again. Not her father. Not her so-called family. And sure as fuck not some rotting witch with a hospital bed and a dying conscience.

Skye whimpers in her sleep, pressing closer to my chest. My grip tightens. My lips brush the top of her head.

I’ll make her forget they ever existed. Replace every bad memory with me. I’ll give her a new family, one that starts and ends with us . And if anyone wants to drag her back into the dark, they’ll have to go through me .

I’ll be smiling when I slit their fuckin’ throat.