Page 27 of Dylan’s Dad (Horsemen Of The Apocalypse MC #1)

Lola

T he cabin is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes my thoughts spiral if I let them.

I sit curled up on the couch, staring out the window at the way the midday sun filters through the trees.

I should be doing something—cleaning, reading, anything to keep my mind busy.

But all I do is sit, waiting for a calm that won’t come. Not when I am alone.

Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table. The sudden sound makes my heart jump. I grab it, my stomach knotting when I see the name. Stallion.

I answer. "Yeah?"

His voice is low and firm. "Listen up, darlin’. Reaper’s on his way to you. He’s bringing a cop."

Ice spreads through my veins. "What?"

"Tristan Dumas. Old acquaintance turned detective. Cops searched Dylan’s place—found blood, place was torn to shit. Now they’re looking for answers."

I tighten my grip on the phone. "And they’re coming here?"

"Reaper had to give ‘em something, or they’d be looking too damn close. I need you to hear me—when that cop asks if you’ve seen or heard from Dylan, you lie. You understand me?"

I swallow hard. "Yeah."

"You don’t know where he is, you haven’t talked to him, and you sure as hell haven’t seen him. But if you want to tell them what happened at Dylan’s house, that’s your call."

I nod, even though he can’t see me. "Got it."

Stallion exhales, his tone softening. "Reaper won’t let anything happen to you, darlin’. Just keep your head straight. They’ll be there soon. Be brave Darlin’ I’ll see you soon."

The line goes dead.

I sit there, gripping the phone, pulse pounding. Then I force myself to move. I take the stairs two at a time, heading to the bathroom on the top floor. Cold water splashes against my face as I grip the edges of the sink, staring at my reflection.

I can do this.

I have to do this.

The distant rumble of motorcycles outside sets my nerves on edge. A few seconds later, the front door swings open.

"Little Flower," Reaper’s voice calls out, strong and steady.

I take a slow breath, then head downstairs.

Reaper stands just inside the doorway, his presence grounding me before I even reach him. His blue eyes lock onto mine, searching, and whatever he sees there makes his expression soften. He steps forward, cupping my face with warm, calloused hands.

"You good?" His voice is low, just for me.

I nod, leaning into his touch. "Yeah."

His thumb brushes over my cheek, and for a moment, everything else fades. But then movement behind him reminds me we’re not alone.

The man beside him is tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes that miss nothing. He carries himself with an ease that tells me he’s been doing this a long time.

Reaper keeps his hand on me as he turns slightly. "Lola, this is Detective Tristan Dumas."

Tristan nods. "Miss Martin. Hope you don’t mind me asking you a few questions."

I lift my chin. "Depends on the questions."

He studies me for a beat, then starts. "Have you seen Dylan?"

"No." The lie is smooth, my heartbeat anything but.

"He hasn’t reached out? No phone calls, no messages?"

I shake my head. "No."

Tristan watches me, and I swear I can feel him dissecting every inch of my response. "That’s strange. His work hasn’t seen him. Neither have his neighbors. You sure he hasn’t tried to contact you?"

"I’m sure."

"You two lived together, didn’t you?"

I nod. "Until I left."

His expression sharpens. "That the night his house got torn apart?"

I let out a slow breath. "Day but, yeah. I was there."

Reaper’s grip on me tightens slightly, his silent way of grounding me. Tristan, though, looks interested. "You were?"

I nod again. "I left Dylan the next morning. And not on good terms."

Tristan tilts his head. "Meaning?"

"Meaning he beat the hell out of me to the point of knocking me unconscious, I left when I woke up," I say flatly. "That’s the blood you found."

His gaze flicks over me, as if searching for any lingering signs of it. Too late. The bruises have faded, but I know he’s picturing them anyway.

"You didn’t report it?"

I huff out a humorless laugh. "No."

"And you haven’t seen him since?"

"No."

Tristan doesn’t look convinced. "You expect me to believe that he just let you go? No attempts to find you? No threats? Nothing?"

I shrug. "Maybe he realized I wasn’t worth the effort."

"That doesn’t sound like the guy whose house looked like a war zone."

I keep my expression blank. "I don’t know what to tell you."

Tristan exhales, rubbing his jaw. "Your phone. You haven’t heard from him on that?"

I shake my head. "I left it at the house when I ran. If he tried to call me, I wouldn’t know."

That gives him pause. He was waiting for me to slip, but I didn’t. Because it’s not a lie.

Reaper moves slightly, positioning himself just enough to remind Tristan whose side he’s on. Protective. Unyielding.

Tristan’s eyes flick over me, taking in the way Reaper’s flannel hangs off my frame, barely covering what needs covering.

His expression doesn’t change much, but I see the way his jaw ticks.

He shifts his attention to Reaper, studying the way he stands close, the way his hand rests possessively on my waist.

"So, you two seem awfully cozy. What’s going on with you two?" Tristan asks, his tone sharp, like he’s already got his suspicions but wants to hear Reaper say it.

Reaper doesn’t hesitate. "It’s exactly what it looks like."

Tristan exhales slowly, nodding like he expected that answer. "Didn’t take you for the type to get involved with your son’s—" He stops himself, but the implication lingers.

Reaper’s grip on me tightens slightly, his body coiling like a predator ready to strike. "Careful," he warns, voice low and steady.

Tristan ignores Reaper’s warning, turning his attention to me. His stare is sharp, cutting straight to the point. "So, how do you go from Dylan to his dad?"

The bluntness of it doesn’t rattle me, but I can feel the way Reaper tenses beside me.

Tristan isn’t satisfied with silence, though—he tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

"You were with Dylan. Living with him. Now you’re here, wearing his father’s shirt.

That’s a hell of a jump, don’t you think? How does that happen?"

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "It happens when the person you thought you loved turns into a monster. When he hurts you. And when someone else is there to show you what love is supposed to be."

Tristan watches me closely, like he’s waiting for some hesitation, some flicker of doubt. But I don’t give him one.

His gaze shifts back to Reaper. "And you? This serious?"

Reaper’s fingers press into my hip, his grip grounding, certain. "I love her." The words are simple, but there’s a weight behind them that leaves no room for doubt.

Tristan’s eyebrows lift just slightly, like maybe he wasn’t expecting that kind of honesty. "Love, huh?"

"Yeah," Reaper says, firm. "She’s mine."

Tristan exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Hell of a situation you’ve got yourself in, Reaper. Can’t imagine Dylan would take this well."

Reaper’s jaw tightens, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against my side. "I don’t give a damn how he takes it."

Tristan watches him like he’s weighing that answer, then finally exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You always did have a way of making things complicated."

Reaper’s smirk is faint, but it’s there. "I don’t lose sleep over other people’s opinions."

Tristan hums, unconvinced. "Maybe you should start." He gives me one last look before finally taking a step back. "For now, I got what I need." But the way he says it makes me think he’ll be back.