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TWELVE

ROGUE

FOUR MONTHS LATER

The bottle of whiskey sits half empty on the table in front of me, but I can barely feel its effects anymore. No amount of alcohol can numb the pain, the guilt, the constant ache of Willow's absence.

It's been a year since she disappeared, a year of sleepless nights and haunted days. Her face is etched into my mind—both the soft, loving smile she used to give me, and the look of betrayal and fear in her eyes the last time I saw her. I broke her. I see it every time I close my eyes. I broke the woman I love and there’s no coming back from that.

I take another long swig from the bottle, welcoming the burn in my throat. It's a poor substitute for the fire Willow used to ignite in me, but it's all I have left.

"Rogue," Ghost's voice cuts through my brooding. "You good, brother?"

I nod. He’s the only one who sits and shoots the shit with me these days. Since Willow’s gone, I'm always ready for a fight. The anger that simmers just beneath the surface is my constant companion, and I'm more than happy to let it loose on our enemies. The rage is just billowing, ready to explode at any moment, and my brothers aren’t looking to be the ones who get on the wrong side of me.

Thankfully, Storm knows I need to let loose every so often and gives me jobs that mean I can get creative. The Hawks are gone. They haven’t resurfaced since we killed Ivy. We don’t know if they’ve moved on and tried their luck elsewhere or if they’re biding their time. But they’re not fucking with us, nor have they done for the past year.

"I’m good," I lie, my voice rough from disuse and whiskey.

Ghost eyes me warily. He's been keeping a close watch on me these past months, probably worried I'm going to snap completely. He's not wrong to be concerned.

"See, I don’t think you are, brother. I see the pain you’re in. I know you feel guilty about what happened to your woman," he explains. "Storm was testing you, brother, testing your commitment to the club. You did good, but you lost a part of yourself in the process.”

Ain’t that the motherfucking truth. I chose the club over the woman I love and doing so destroyed her. “I’m fine,” I growl, not wanting to have this discussion.

His cell rings and I watch as he answers it. His jaw clenches and the grip he has on the cell tightens, his face ashen and his eyes closed. “You sure?” he says thickly.

“Fuck, where’s Smoke?” he growls. “He’s there? Is he hurt?”

Everyone in the room stills at his words. The air is wired, ready to combust. What the fuck is happening?

“Send him to me,” Ghost grits out. “Tell him to come to the clubhouse. We need to get ahead of this shit.”

The call ends and he turns to me. The look of rage and pain in his eyes has me bracing.

"Storm's dead," he announces, his voice shaking. "Someone got to him at his house. Slit his throat."

The room erupts into chaos, brothers shouting and demanding answers. But I remain still, processing the information. Storm, our president, the man who’s been like a father figure to me since my own died, is gone. Fuck.

"Who did it?" I ask, my voice cutting through the noise. "Was it the Hawks?"

Those cunts have been quiet—too damn quiet. I wouldn’t put it past them to have done this.

Ghost shakes his head. "We don't know. The Hawks have been quiet for a year, ever since we took out Ivy. This... this is something personal.”

Fuck yes it’s personal. Someone took out our president, took out Ghost’s father. It couldn’t get any more damn personal.

“Smoke’s on his way. We need to get ahead of this. No one takes out a Saint and gets away with it.”

I nod in agreement. No one kills our president and walks away scot-free.

“Rogue, take Sniper and go to the Hawks’ clubhouse. Find out where the fuck they are and if they had a hand in taking out our president. Do whatever the fuck you need to do in order to extract information.”

A cold smile spreads across my face. This is what I'm good for now—violence, pain, fear and destruction. It's all I have left to offer. I’ll happily do it. Fuck, I need something to do.

"Consider it done," I growl, grabbing my cut and heading for the door.

The Hawks' clubhouse stands before us, silent and dark. It's a far cry from what it used to be. Sniper and I exchange a glance before approaching, weapons at the ready.

We breach the door easily—too easily. The main room is empty, a thick layer of dust covering everything. It's clear no one's been here in months.

"Looks abandoned," Sniper mutters.

I nod, but something doesn't feel right. I always trust my gut in moments like this. "Let's check the rest."

We move through the building systematically, finding nothing but more emptiness and dust. Until we reach the back rooms.

The door creaks open, revealing three older men lounging on worn couches. Their eyes widen in fear as they recognize us, each of them wearing their worn cuts, letting us know they’re members of the Shadow Hawks MC.

"Well, well," I drawl, a cold smile spreading across my face. "Looks like we found some stragglers."

One of the men, a grizzled biker with a gray beard, stands up shakily. "We ain't got nothing to do with the Hawks no more. They left us behind."

"Is that so?" I ask, circling him predatorily. "Then maybe you can tell us where they went. And why your boys decided to take out our president."

The old man's face pales. "We don't know nothin' about that. The Hawks cleared out months ago, left us to rot," he spits, sounding disgusted, then again, if my club did it to me, I’d be beyond pissed.

I exchange a glance with Sniper. He nods, understanding my unspoken command. In a flash, he has one of the other men pinned to the wall, knife at his throat.

"Let's try this again," I growl, grabbing the bearded man by his shirt. "Where are the Hawks?"

"I swear, we don't know!" he cries out.

I slam him against the wall, feeling a sick satisfaction as he groans in pain. "Wrong answer."

My knife slices into his shoulder, his howl of pain echoing through the room. The old man's eyes widen in terror as blood seeps through his shirt.

"I'll ask one more time," I growl, twisting the knife slightly. "Where are the Hawks?"

"Please," he gasps. "We really don't know! They left us here, said we were too old to be useful. Haven't heard from 'em in months!"

I search his eyes, looking for any sign of deception, but all I see is fear and desperation.

"What about Storm?" Sniper asks, pressing his knife harder against his captive's throat. "You hear anything about that?"

The third man, who's been cowering silently in the corner, suddenly speaks up. "Wait! I... I might know somethin'."

I turn to him, raising an eyebrow. "Talk."

"I overheard some of the younger guys talkin' before they left," he says, voice shaking. "They mentioned somethin' about settlin' old scores. Said they had a plan to hit the Saints where it'd hurt most."

My blood runs cold. "When was this?"

"'Bout ten months ago," he replies. "Right before they cleared out."

I raise a brow at Sniper. This doesn't add up. If the Hawks had been planning this for months, why wait until now? And why target Storm specifically?

"Anything else?" I demand.

The old man shakes his head. "That's all I know, I swear."

I believe him, but that doesn't mean I'm done. These men might not have killed Storm, but they're still Hawks. And right now, I need an outlet for the rage boiling inside me.

"Sniper," I say, my voice cold, "let's show these gentlemen what happens to anyone associated with the people who hurt our brothers."

It doesn’t take long for us to kill them. It’s swift and merciless. They'll serve as a message to anyone else who might think about crossing the Saints.

As we get ready to leave, I pull out a bottle of whiskey and a rag.

"What are you doing?" Sniper asks, his brows knitted.

I give him a grim smile as I stuff the rag into the bottle. "Sending a message," I reply, lighting the makeshift Molotov cocktail and hurling it into the room.

We walk away as flames engulf the clubhouse behind us. The smell of the dead men’s burnt skin will soon fill the air. What happened here was brutal, and if Willow knew, she’d be horrified. The man she loved is gone. That man died the day I lost her.

As we ride back to our clubhouse, I can't shake the feeling that we're missing something. The Hawks might be involved in Storm's death, but my gut tells me there's more to this story.

It’s been five days since Storm’s murder and we’re none the wiser to finding out who killed him. Not only that, there’s internal disagreement within the ranks. When Storm died, there had to be a new president elected. It was obvious to everyone who it was going to be. Ghost. He was Storm’s vice president and the only man we’d want leading us. But Ghost’s brother, Smoke, isn’t happy. He wants to become president and he’s making it known that he’s not happy.

Just minutes ago, Smoke stormed out of the chapel. Every brother heard what happened. I’m not sure if the bond between the brothers can be repaired after this. Ghost told Smoke if he doesn’t like the fact that he’s president, Smoke should leave, and that’s what he’s doing. Right now, Smoke’s packing up his stuff and getting ready to leave.

I knock on the chapel door and wait for Ghost to call out. “Yeah,” he says and I enter the room. He looks exhausted, his eyes bloodshot and his face pale.

The man’s just lost his dad and now his brother’s leaving too. I’d be the same way.

“That went…” I pause, staring at him. There’s a half empty bottle of bourbon sitting on the table. “About as good as any of us could have expected. At least there was no bloodshed.”

Ghost takes a long swig from the bottle. "Yeah, no blood. Just family ties severed instead. Fuck."

I take a seat. "You did what you had to do, man. That was tough for you but right for the club."

"I know, I know," he mutters, rubbing his temples. "But he's my brother, for Christ's sake. Dad would be rolling in his grave if he could see us now."

I lean forward. "Look, Prez,” I say low, calling him president for the first time. I always knew this day would come. Ghost was always going to take over from his dad. It was his destiny. “The club needs stability, especially with having a new president. But the brothers need to know what’s going down.”

Ghost nods grimly, taking another long swig from the bottle. "Alright. Call a meeting. I’ll let them know what’s going on. I have no doubt some of them will want to go with him."

He’s right, there’s going to be a few who will. But Smoke will find his path, and I know whatever happens, he’ll be okay.

He stands up, swaying slightly. I can see the toll this is taking on him—losing his father, becoming president, and now his brother walking out. It's a heavy burden.

Ghost orders, "It's time we lay it all out. That includes the new path the club will travel."

I nod and head out to gather the brothers. Within minutes, we're all assembled around the table, a tense silence filling the room. Ghost takes his place at the head of the table, his face a mask of determination.

"Brothers," he begins, his voice steady despite the alcohol I know is coursing through his system. "As you all know, we've had a turbulent few days. My father, our president, was murdered. And now, my brother has chosen to leave the club."

Murmurs ripple through the room. Ghost holds up a hand for silence.

"I know there are questions. Concerns. I'm here to address them all. First and foremost, finding my father's killer is our top priority. Rogue and Sniper's recon mission to the Hawks' clubhouse turned up little, but we're not ruling them out yet."

He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the room. "As for the presidency, you all put your faith in me and it’s an honor. I want to assure you, I am committed to this club, to all of you. My brother's departure doesn't change that. If anything, it strengthens my resolve."

I watch the faces of my brothers, gauging their reactions. Everyone’s supportive, nodding along with Ghost's words.

Ghost continues, outlining his plans for the club moving forward. Moving the club to more legitimate dealings. Ghost has been thinking about this a lot. The Saints will open new bars, a mechanic shop, and buy some property to lease out. It's a solid plan, one that would make both his dad, Storm, and his grandfather, Steel, proud.

As the meeting wraps up, Ghost calls me over. "Rogue, I need you to keep an ear to the ground. If there's any dissent brewing, I want to know about it."

I nod, understanding the gravity of what he's asking. "You got it, Prez. I've got your back."

As I leave the chapel, my mind is racing. The club is at a turning point, and I know the decisions we make in the coming days will shape our future. But beneath it all, a familiar ache pulses in my chest.

Willow...

Even now, in the midst of all this chaos, she's never far from my thoughts. I wonder where she is, if she's safe. If she ever thinks of me. The guilt and regret threaten to overwhelm me, but I push it down. I can't afford to be distracted now. The club needs me focused and ready for whatever comes our way.