Page 15

Soon, the sun burns through the morning mist, setting fire to the hills of Paradise County.

I leave Sophie behind at the farm. Safe, for now, posted under Oaks and Derby’s watchful eyes.

My knuckles are tight on the throttle as I tear down the backroad.

My mind’s a damn war zone. Too many questions. Not enough time.

The Kings' clubhouse looms ahead, sittin' where the old Paradise County jail used to lock up sinners. Now it's home to a different breed of criminal, my breed. Stone walls chipped with time, barred windows stained with rust and memory. A fortress of bastards and blood brothers.

I roll up slow, the low growl of my Harley joining the choir of patched steel already parked out front.

There’s a sense of calm in the chaos, like comin’ home to the only family that never walked away.

Inside, the air’s thick with smoke, spilled whiskey, and the bite of old war stories.

Neon signs flicker over cracked pool tables and leather cuts stitched with sins.

Bullet throws a nod from behind the bar, face unreadable like always. Rye and Vandal are at it again, arguing like they’re fixin’ to throw punches, but it’s all bark tonight. No bite.

“Legend!” That sharp-ass voice cuts through the room like a damn blade.

I don’t need to turn to know it’s Becki.

My sister in everything but blood, and just as dangerous. She stalks toward me, boots heavy, black hair like a whip behind her. Eyes sharp. Chin lifted. Trouble bottled up in a tiny package of fury and sass.

“What is it, Becki?” I grunt, already feelin’ the headache comin’.

She crosses her arms, hip cocked like she’s fixin’ for a fight. “Word is, you’ve got Sophie Montgomery holed up at the farm. Didn’t know we were in the business of babysittin’ debutantes now.”

I keep movin’, brushing past her toward the bar. “Ain’t what it looks like.”

“Oh please,” she hisses, following on my heels. “You’re already knee-deep, don’t lie about it. She’s the same stuck-up princess who ran when shit got hard.”

I stop short. Turn. Square my shoulders to her.

“Yeah?” I growl. “And you’re the same wild card who almost blew up the propane tank because someone looked at you wrong. We all got our faults.”

Her eyes spark with something fierce. “Difference is, I earned my place here. Sophie’s just passin’ through.”

“You don’t know her,” I say, low and steady.

“I know enough,” she spits. “She’s got that same name that ran your daddy into the dirt. You think this time’s gonna end different?”

That one hits deep. Right in the scar that never healed.

Ezekiel Crowley, the preacher who raised me after my old man fell apart, always preached about loyalty and wrath. But it was his daughter Becki who bled beside me when things went sideways. Becki who picked fights just to keep up. Becki who stayed.

“I ain’t askin’ you to like her,” I say quieter, more dangerous now. “But she’s in danger. And no one, not you, not her name, not the past, is gonna stop me from protectin’ her.”

Her mouth trembles, but she tightens it fast. “You think she’s worth breakin’ everything we built?”

I shake my head. “Ain’t about worth. It’s about right. And no matter what she’s done, she didn’t ask for this. The shit comin’ for her’s bigger than grudges and jealousy.”

Becki backs off, but not before tossin’ one more look that’s half warning, half heartbreak. “Just don’t come cryin’ when she leaves again.”

It’s then I notice, she did cut off all her hair. Darla was right to warn me. It’s gonna piss her backwards daddy off, and it’s gonna be my problem.

Becki disappears into the shadows of the clubhouse, and I feel it, that twist in my gut. Not doubt. Not guilt. Just pressure. And it’s building.

“Brother,” Bullet steps in, two shots in hand, one already halfway gone. His face is carved from stone, but I can see the worry behind his eyes. “You good?”

I grab the shot. Toss it back. Let the burn do its work.

“Yeah,” I grunt.

He watches me a second too long. “You sure? ‘Cause this feels personal. And personal gets men killed. It’s my job to keep you breathing.”

I set the glass down hard. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve buried brothers. Bled for less. I ain’t gonna let emotions cloud my aim. Sophie’s in danger. We’re the only line between her and a shallow grave.”

Bullet swirls his drink slow. “Just make sure you ain’t confusing protectin’ her with savin’ yourself.”

I stare him down. Not out of anger. Just honesty. “Maybe it’s both.”

“She want you? Or is she playing you again?” Knowing the score, he echoed Becki’s words. Fuck, I wouldn’t let another brother mention it, but my enforcer is charged with seeing danger I can’t.

Sophie’s burned me before. Told me she was running away with me only to rat me out for stealing her mama’s mare.

“You’re right. I need to get my head on straight.”

He nods once, slow and deliberate. “We’re ridin’ with you. Whatever comes. No matter the stakes, but I want to see the club survive, Prez.”

I clap his shoulder, grateful as hell for the loyalty. “Appreciate it.”

Then I turn, walk deeper into the clubhouse.

Time to end this shit.

One way or another.

I can’t be attached to Sophie like I am. She’s not mine. Said so herself.

The hallway’s dark, lit only by flickering bulbs that hum like hornets caught behind drywall. There are no windows back here. My boots echo down the cracked tile floor, each step a beat closer to a mistake I already know I’m gonna make.

I shove open the door to my room, my cell, and there she is.

Becki.

Laid out in my bed, legs bare, T-shirt too damn big and still not enough. Her black hair’s gone, chopped short and jagged, like a warning sign with teeth.

“You look like you picked a fight with a lawn mower,” I mutter, voice low and mean as I shut the door behind me.

She rolls onto her side, one brow cocked. “Still look better than that church girl you’re babysitting.”

“Church girl? You’re the only church girl I know.”

“I mean miss prim and proper. Derby girl. Horse Princess.”

“Don’t you dare,” I warn her, stalking to the dresser. I yank open the top drawer, grab a bottle of bourbon and twist the cap. I take a long pull. Burn’s good. Not good enough.

“I had Brenda over at Blow Me, clean it up into a pixie cut. She says it’s cute and feminine,” she says patting her hair. “Unlike the girl next door,” she adds under her breath.

“You really think that’s gonna keep Daddy from comin’ down on you?” I ask, tossing the bottle to the nightstand. “It’s a sin to him.”

She shrugs. “Let him try. He don’t own me.”

“He’ll try to own me. Again.” My voice is sharp now.

She sits up. “Then I know another sin. Take it out on me.”

I pause.

Her legs part, slow, deliberate. Eyes glinting like she knows I’m teetering on the edge and ready to fall.

“Use me, Legend,” she whispers. “Ain’t that what you want? You’re angry. Sophie’s in your head. Let me erase her.”

I cross the room in two strides. Grab her wrist. Pull her to her feet. We’re chest to chest, breath to breath.

“You want rough?” I growl.

“Always,” she breathes, and crashes her mouth to mine.

We hit the mattress like a damn thunderstorm. Teeth, tongues, hands, heat. She wraps her legs around me, nails digging into my back like she’s trying to carve her name into my skin. I tear that T-shirt clean off her, don't care whose it was. It wasn’t mine. She’s not mine. She’s willin’.

There’s sweat and bourbon and fury between us. Her mouth tastes like rebellion. Her body knows mine too well. She moves like she’s got something to prove, and hell, maybe I do too.

But when I’m buried deep in her, when she’s gasping my name and clawing for more, I close my eyes…

And see Sophie.

Not Becki.

Green eyes, softer voice, the way she looked at me before she walked back into her house this morning.

I curse under my breath and press harder, faster, like I can drive her out of me. I should’ve followed Sophie to her bed up in her high tower. Given her what I’m givin’ Becki, whether she wanted it or not.

Becki moans loud, pulls me tighter, but it’s not enough. Not even close.

I’m in raw, and it doesn’t help. I pull out, not fixin’ to put a baby in her.

She flips to her knees, showing me her pink puckered hole.

I take the invitation. One hand on the back of her neck, I glide my cock into her tight ass.

I grab her hips rough, like I’m tryin’ to anchor myself to anything but the memory of Sophie’s touch.

Becki moans my name, but it sounds hollow. It ain’t her fault. It ain’t her name I want on my lips.

It’s over quick, desperate, and mean. Her body shakes under mine, and I drop beside her, chest heaving.

She curls into me like we’re lovers. We ain’t.

I stare at the ceiling, jaw locked tight.

What the hell am I doin’?

“You okay?” she asks, voice softer now, almost human.

“Yeah,” I lie.

She doesn’t push.

After a minute, her breath evens out. She’s asleep or pretending to be. Doesn’t matter.

I slip out from under her, grab my jeans off the floor, and slide out the door with the bottle in hand.

Outside, the fresh air hits me like a punch. Cool. Quiet. Unforgiving.

I light a cigarette and lean against the railing of the old jailhouse-turned-clubhouse. Smoke curls around my face, bourbon in my blood.

Across the hills, Paradise Fall.

I wonder if Sophie’s waking up.

I take another drag, exhale slow, and mutter to the wind, “She ain’t yours.”

But my heart doesn’t listen.