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“I helped. The girl isn’t dead… she’s just gone.

Father and I paid your PI’s triple to tell you the trail was cold.

They betrayed you for cold hard cash just like everyone else does in the end.

Mother probably scared her off—didn’t see your girl as the next ‘Mrs. Northport material. ’ I was out riding one morning saw her in your truck coasting down the old dirt road at the ranch’s border.

I stopped my horse just beyond the tree line and watched get into an old SUV.

Military looking guy helped her out. Then I tied up my horse, put the truck in neutral and pushed it behind some brush.

Father dealt with it from there. I think he told you some bullshit story how the PI found it by the river and we had it towed.

When the truth was we left it stashed in the brush for weeks. ”

My fist cocked, met his face in a second flat. I pummeled him anywhere I could land a punch.

No one stopped me.

I stopped myself when he refused to fight back.

Blood dripped from his nose and mouth. “I expected betrayal from mother, but never from you. You’re dead to me, Cal. Take my fuckin’ share of the ranch, I never wanted it anyway and his blood ain’t mine. Father can rot in hell.”

I stalked out of the garage. “I’m going with the Royal Bastards. Stay out of my way when I get back. I’m only coming back for my things. Both of you are dead to me.”

“What did I do?” Colton swallowed hard.

“Nothing. But you will stick with him. I know it.”

Edge nodded. “Take your Ducati. You’ll ride beside me, brother. ”

“Thanks, brother.” The irony of my words wasn’t lost on anybody.

“JD! Wait!’

My little brother, Colton, nipped at my heels. He was always the pleaser… the do-gooder… perfect little fucker.

“Not now. I just can’t.”

The desert night was dead silent when the bikes pulled off the highway, engines snarling down to a growl as we rolled onto the dirt path that led to Royal Bastards MC stash house.

Tarak was in front, Edge behind me, a few patched brothers riding shotgun and tail. No lights. No words. Just the hum of vengeance vibrating in our bones.

The stash house sat like a ghost on the edge of nowhere—tin roof, boarded windows, the kind of place even coyotes avoided. Inside, under the single hanging bulb, we had him.

Strung up like meat.

His arms were suspended from a steel beam, wrists bound in rusted shackles, feet just touching the floor. Sweat slicked his brow. Blood crusted his lip. One eye already swollen shut.

I walked in last. Leather creaking. Boots dragging dust.

He flinched the second he saw me. Smart.

“Is this him?” I asked without taking my eyes off the man.

Tarak nodded. “Same guy from the library feed. Six years ago. Had to dig deep, but we traced the face.”

Edge cracked his knuckles. “Bastard's been hiding in San Antonio. Real low-profile. Real slippery. ”

I stepped closer, every part of me colder than the steel hanging him up.

“You,” I said, voice quiet. “You were the one in the footage. With her.”

He didn’t answer.

So I punched him.

Knuckles to jaw. Bone to bone. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

He groaned but said nothing.

“I watched that video a hundred times,” I whispered, pacing now. “Thought she kissed you. Thought she *left* me for you.”

Another hit. Ribs this time. He choked, coughed, wheezed.

Edge winced. Tarak didn’t blink.

“I almost drank myself to death. Almost joined the family business. Almost let her go.”

Another punch. His nose broke. Blood poured.

“Talk,” I growled.

Nothing.

So I went deeper. I grabbed his face, stared into the good eye.

“Who paid you?”

“I—I don’t know his name.”

Wrong answer. I slammed his head back against the beam.

“Wrong.”

“I swear—” He sobbed. “He didn’t tell me his name.

Some guy. Ex-military type. Crew cut. Scars.

Looked like he ate glass for breakfast. He found me on the street.

Paid me a thousand bucks to meet some girl outside the library.

Said all I had to do was hug her. Act like I knew her. No touching unless she agreed. ”

“Why?” I hissed.

“Said he needed to ‘build a story.’ Said it was part of a bigger job. I didn’t ask questions, man. I needed the money.”

“You show up again?”

“No,” he cried. “Never saw him after that day. Just the one time. Just the girl. Swear to God.”

Tarak looked at me, arms folded. “Sounds like someone staged it. Professional. Clean. Meant to throw off a trail.”

Edge muttered, “And we bought it.”

I looked down at the bleeding man, disgust curling in my gut.

“You were just a pawn,” I said.

He nodded frantically, teeth rattling.

“And the guy who paid you?”

“I never saw him again.”

“How did you get the ring?” I growled, not wanting to be done but knowing it was over.

“She dropped it. I picked it up. I recognized the crest. Wasn’t hard to figure out her story.”

I stepped back, breathing hard, blood on my hands, heart in shreds. Six years. Chasing a ghost…

Tarak grabbed the guy’s chin. “If we find out you’re lying…”

“I’m not,” he whimpered.

I turned to Edge. “Dump him at the bus station. Make sure he gets far from this state.”

Edge raised an eyebrow but nodded.

As the man was dragged out, I wiped my hands on a rag and stared into the dark, empty corners of the stash house.

Someone *wanted* me to think she betrayed me.

And I let them.

But not anymore.

Now I knew .

Now the hunt was back on. I roared out on my ride needing space. I left things unfinished at the ranch. I wasn’t ready to go back or move forward just yet. I needed the open road, desert night sky spilling stars like a dropped bag of diamonds.

The official DNA report lay crumpled in my fist, the Northport crest repeating itself like a cruel watermark behind every word that proved I didn’t belong to it.

Probability of paternity: 0.00 %

Turns out the whispers were true: Clarissa McGovern Northport’s perfect heir wasn’t her husband’s at all.

I’d been born a bastard inside wedlock, an insurance policy to keep a dynasty intact.

Cal had known for years—found the old records while helping “clean up” family files—then kept the secret because “it would break Dad’s heart and after his death—his legacy.

After my “father’s funeral” I had told both Cal and Colton the bombshell mother dearest had dropped on me.

Colton refused to believe it and refused to do a DNA test. Cal just shrugged and mumbled something about fixing the roof on the barn.

The betrayal burned worst from him. Cal, the one brother I thought gave a damn.

So I did the only thing that still made sense.

I packed a duffel, rolled the Ducati down the driveway, and pointed the front tire at the Royal Bastards’ clubhouse on the I-25 frontage road outside Santa Fe.

Cal’s guilt at concealing many truths probably led him to leaving me the envelope as I packed up.

The yard rumbled with Harleys, chrome catching late-afternoon sun like blade flashes. Edge was on the porch nursing a beer, boots propped on the rail. He saw my bike, shook his head, grinning.

“Figured you’d show.” He thumbed toward the door. “Tarak’s inside. Come on.”

The clubhouse smelled of motor oil, leather, and the ghost of a hundred bad decisions—everything my parents’ marble halls never had and suddenly all I wanted. Tarak looked up from the bar, towering and tattooed, a half-smile carving into his beard.

“You ridin’ or runnin’, Northport?”

“Ridin’,” I said, dropping the duffel. “And I’m not a Northport. Not anymore.”

Edge clapped my shoulder. “Room in the back’s yours till you figure shit out.”

“Already figured,” I answered. “I’m staying.”

A few heads lifted from their beers. Murmurs. The new guy in pressed jeans and a Ducati, talking like he belongs.

Tarak raised a brow. “Club’s got rules. You prospect first.”

“I’m not wearing a prospect patch.” I met his gaze flat. “Six years of finance, mergers, off-shore shelters. I can wash your books until the IRS can’t tell a tattoo parlor from a hedge fund. You want real money? I’m your man—but I do it with a full patch.”

Silence. A couple of brothers smirked, waiting for River to put me in my place. Instead he tipped his bottle back, thinking.

Edge broke the hush. “He’s not wrong, Prez. Crew could use a white-collar brain. Feds been sniffin’ since the last gun-running bust.”

River exhaled. “You’re askin’ a lot, JD.”

“I’m offering more. Besides, you’re the one to break protocols… shake things up. Nothing like the next generation of a leader to break molds… ”

He eyed me another beat, then nodded once. “Trial period. Ninety days. You ride every run, swing a wrench, swing a fist if needed, and clean our ledgers. You screw us, we bury you in the mesa. Do it right, patch is yours. Deal?”

I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”

His grip was iron. The clubhouse let out a low cheer, part approval, part curiosity about the suit-turned-outlaw.

By midnight, four brothers—Edge among them—were back at Northport Ranch loading my guitars, the Ducati’s spare parts, and two duffels of clothes into a flatbed. I didn’t bother going—Cal’s betrayal was still too raw.

When the flatbed braked outside the main clubhouse, I helped unload, looked up at the weather-beaten sign: Royal Bastards MC – Santa Fe Chapter.

Suits and satin ties had always felt itchy, like I’d stolen someone else’s skin. The kutte Edge draped across my shoulders felt heavy—real—but it fit.

For the first time since Skye vanished, the hollow in my chest eased.

I wasn’t a Northport.

Wasn’t a ranch hand.

Wasn’t a trust-fund puppet.

I was on the road, with brothers who chose me, heading toward a truth I could finally fight for.

Did I still have feelings for, Red? Maybe. Maybe not.

The smart play would be to leave her in the past to focus forward. Years had gone by—hell, the girl was probably married now. Maybe even a mama.

My fists curled.

I was the first to touch her.

Have her.

Taste her silky skin .

It took years to stop thinking of her with every breath I took. Now it’s only once a day if that—late at night.

Maybe the ghost of her memory will haunt me my entire life.

My family’s heirloom ring felt heavy in my pocket. I hadn’t seen it since the days Red wore it. Maybe I’d bury along with the rest of my past but first it was time to go get some ink.