Page 26 of Dylan’s Dad (Horsemen Of The Apocalypse MC #1)

Two Days Later

Reaper

The clubhouse smells like stale beer and leather, a scent that’s been soaked into the walls for years.

Stallion leans back in his chair across from me, coffee in hand, boots kicked up on the table.

We’re not talking, just sitting in the comfortable silence that comes after too many late nights and too much history.

Sunlight filters in through the grimy windows, cutting through the smoke lingering from someone’s earlier cigarette.

Then the front door swings open, and I know trouble’s walked in before I even look up.

Tristan Dumas.

He’s older, a little more worn around the edges, but that badge on his chest straightens his spine like he’s something more than what he used to be. His eyes scan the room, landing on me.

"Reaper." His voice is all business. "We need to talk."

I stay seated, let the silence stretch before finally meeting his gaze. "Didn’t realize there was anything left to say."

"There is." He steps further inside, uninvited, his hand resting on his belt. Not on his gun, but close enough to remind me it’s there. "It’s about Dylan."

My jaw tightens. "What about him?"

"He’s missing. And a search of his place turned up some blood. The place was trashed." He watches me, waiting for a reaction. I don’t give him one.

Stallion straightens, setting his coffee mug down with a quiet thud. "And?"

Tristan’s eyes flick to him but settle back on me. "And I need to know if you’ve seen him."

I let out a slow breath, running my hand over my beard. "I haven’t."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I’m sure." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Last time I saw Dylan was the day I went to prison. That was years ago."

Tristan’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the wheels turning. "Not even once since you got out?"

I shake my head. "Not once."

"Why’s that? He’s your kid."

"Not anymore." The words taste bitter, but I don’t take them back. "He laid hands on a woman who didn’t deserve it. I took her side. Simple as that."

Tristan exhales sharply, then rubs a hand over his jaw.

"You might want to hear this before you get too comfortable with that answer. Dylan’s house looked like a goddamn warzone.

Blood on the doorframe of the bedroom and smeared on the living room floor.

Couch torn up, coffee table shattered. Looked like someone took a bat to it.

Tons of empty beer and liquor bottles everywhere.

Whoever was there last wasn’t in their right mind. "

I knew what happened before he even walked in here.

Knew what Dylan did. He didn’t just beat Lola—he took more from her than I can ever make right.

That blood, the wreckage, it’s not some mystery to me.

It’s what he left behind after turning into the monster I refused to see.

Hearing Tristan lay it out, though, feels like salt in an open wound.

And worse, I have to sit here and act like none of it matters.

Like I don’t already know every ugly detail.

Tristan shifts his stance. "Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I need answers. And I’m not just looking for Dylan." His eyes narrow. "You seen Celosia Martin? Know where she is?"

I go rigid, my hands curling into fists on my thighs. "Why?"

"Because her work hasn’t seen her in over a month. No one has. And given what we found at Dylan’s, I need to make sure she’s not lying in a ditch somewhere."

I force my hands to relax and meet his stare head-on. "She didn’t want Dylan finding her. She’s been laying low. That’s all."

"Yeah? Then where is she?"

I could lie. Tell him I don’t know. But that only makes things worse. If I want the cops looking somewhere else, I have to give them something.

"She’s at my cabin," I say, voice flat. "You can follow me there."

Tristan gives me a long look, then jerks his chin toward the door. "Let’s go."

I push up from my chair, slipping on my cut. As I step past Stallion, I shoot him a glance—quick, but heavy with meaning. He gives the smallest nod, barely noticeable, but I know he gets it. He’ll call Lola, give her the heads-up.

I step outside. The midday sun is bright, too damn bright. Something tells me this is just the beginning.