Page 135

Jaykob

Growth means you don’t punch assholes until after

your girl says it’s okay.

I climb up the ladder of the wooden sentry post. It towers just behind the Reapers’ shitty-ass front gate and is only wide enough to fit a handful of us, but any visuals are better than none.

At least the stupid sneezeball flowers have died off—only withered, brown vines are rubbing up on the tin walls now.

When I reach the top of the post, I stand between my guys.

I stand next to Eden.

My skin prickles as I fall into place with my team. This shit will be interesting.

“The civs have them contained. They’ve got it covered, and they’re ready to go.” I glance down at Eden, and I snort. “They left their damn rifles at the door, too. Like it was a church fucking potluck.”

Beau shakes his head, and Jasper rubs his forehead disbelievingly.

I eye Dom. “You sure this is worth the trouble? We could just let those two get ganked and take over here. It wouldn’t even be that?—”

“ No !”

Eden, Jasper, Beau, and Dom snap the word with different flavors of annoyance, and Lucky laughs, shooting me a grin.

Rolling my eyes, I look out down the wide, long drive.

“Do you think we need any more of the civs up?—”

“Any sign of ’em? They should be here any time now!” Sawyer calls from the ground.

I grind my teeth as he starts climbing up. Cole and Akira linger at the base of the post with forced little smiles on their faces.

Eden links her fingers with mine without saying a word, and I force a breath out my nose.

Fine. I won’t punch him.

Yet.

Sawyer wedges himself between us, just as I hear tires approaching in the distance. It takes another minute before I see them—more than a dozen trucks and cars, all in a convoy, rolling on in.

I seriously hope they’re not here to fight, because if they are, we’re fucked.

The convoy stops a short distance away. Beside me, Dom’s phone starts ringing, and he frowns, staring down at it.

“Here we go,” Lucky mutters, pulling around his rifle.

I pull mine around, too, and brace myself as the tall, white-haired Sinner—Sullivan—gets out of the first no-guts little car right in the center.

In moments, more Sinners spill out around him, dragging two men who are tied up like Thanksgiving turkeys. They’re kicked onto their knees a short distance from our gate.

Alastair and Mateo.

The sun winks off dozens of loaded-up rifles as the Sinners circle around them, wearing too many fucking accessories for this time of day. Frags. Gustafs. Grenade launchers. Rifles and pistols and too many freaking mags.

Sullivan lifts his hands up as he walks behind them, showing he’s unarmed, and it takes everything in me not to shoot him on principle.

“Hello, Reapers! Hello, Bristlebrook!” he calls.

Right as Dom answers his phone.

“Who the hell is this?” he asks, staring at Alastair and Mateo.

And a woman’s broken voice crackles over the line.

“ . . . Dom ?”