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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I SAT BACK in my chair, nursing a beer while my brothers bantered around me. Chain leaned forward, his elbows resting on the scarred wood of the table, a grin curling his lips like he was about to stir the pot—or dive headfirst into some bullshit. Knowing him, probably both.

“You ever think about how weird ghosts are?” Chain asked, his eyes narrowing, a knowing smirk creeping in, like he was about to drop some backroad wisdom no one else had figured out yet.

Gatsby raised an eyebrow, barely glancing up from the deck of cards he was shuffling. “I’m assuming this is going somewhere,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate, like he was narrating one of those old movies in his head.

Chain’s grin widened, pure trouble. “Tell me why ghosts never show up lookin’ like they just rolled outta bed. No sweatpants, no holey T-shirts, just full-on period drama. Where’s the dude haunting his ex’s house in a stained wife beater?”

Devil sat across from me, rolling a poker chip between his fingers like he was calling the next hand. His smirk was lazy, but his eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “Chain, you ever think about giving your mouth a break and letting the rest of you catch up?”

“Come on, man, I’m serious!” Chain protested, throwing his hands up like he was preaching some gospel. “When I die, I’m gonna haunt this place buck-fucking naked. Freak everyone out.”

I took a slow sip of my beer, barely sparing him a glance. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve walked around here with your ass out.”

The table erupted in laughter, a few guys banging on the wood for effect. Chain clutched his chest like I’d just put a knife in him. “You wound me, Spinner! I thought we were brothers!”

I smirked, leaning back. “We are. But brotherhood don’t mean I gotta pretend you’re not a goddamn idiot.”

“Leave it to Chain to turn the afterlife into a fashion debate,” Gatsby muttered, finally setting the cards down. His gaze drifted into the distance, that far-off look he always got when he started thinking about shit none of us ever would. “Ghosts were scarier in the fifties. Classier, too. Shadows and whispers, none of this CGI garbage.”

Chain let out a dry chuckle. “Classic Gatsby, always stuck in the past.”

“Better than the mess we’ve got now,” Gatsby shot back, his tone cool. “Back then, things were simpler. Technology’s a double-edged sword—cuts both ways.”

Chain opened his mouth for another jab, but Devil raised a hand. Instantly, the table went quiet.

“If we’re done debating ghost fashion and other dumb shit,” Devil said, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the chatter, “how about we focus on something that matters, like poker?”

Chain groaned. “Aw, come on, Devil. Don’t be a buzzkill,” he muttered, but he still sat up straighter. Then, with a shit-eating grin, he added under his breath, “Whatever you say, Daddy.”

Devil’s glare could’ve peeled paint, but Chain just looked proud of himself.

Chain and Mystic were the only ones who could get away with mouthing off to Devil. The rest of us wouldn’t survive the aftermath. Gatsby started dealing cards while Devil leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Dragon Fire’s been quiet,” Devil said. “Too quiet. That means they’re planning something, and we need to be ready when they make their move.”

The mood shifted like a storm rolling in with the subject change. Laughter drained from the room, leaving behind a tense silence. I set my beer down, my mind already racing. “You think they’re regrouping?”

“Or waiting for us to slip up,” Devil replied, his crimson eyes scanning the table like he could read our thoughts. “Either way, we don’t give them the chance.”

Chain leaned back, his humor fading. “Any word on what they might be cookin’ up?”

“Nothing solid,” Devil said. “But we’ve got eyes on their usual haunts. If they so much as sneeze in our direction, we’ll know.”

Gatsby tapped his fingers against the table, his expression thoughtful. “You think they’ll target Zeynep or Lucy?”

Devil’s gaze flicked to me, heavy with unspoken concern. My jaw tightened. “They’d be stupid to try,” I said firmly. “But if they do, they won’t get far.”

Chain let out a low whistle. “Man, you’re really invested in this one, huh?”

“Drop it, Chain.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but that damn grin was back. “Hey, I’m just sayin’, it’s nice to see you care about somethin’ other than ink and toys.”

The men chuckled and I rolled my eyes saying, “At least I don’t spend my time worryin’ about sweatpant ghosts.”

The table chuckled, easing some of the heavy shit we were all thinking about. Even Devil’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile before he shook his head. “All right,” he said, standing. “Get some rest. We’ve got work to do tomorrow.”

The others started filtering out, leaving me alone with the quiet. The camaraderie lingered, like the faint remnants of laughter in the air. These men, crazy, stubborn, and loyal as hell, were my family. And family meant everything.

I glanced at the empty chair beside me, where Lucy had sat the last time she’d been here. My fingers tightened around the neck of my beer bottle, the condensation cold against my skin. For all their quirks and chaos, I’d do whatever it took to keep these men—and her—safe.

Something I couldn’t do for my dad.

“Don’t go there,” I muttered, my voice low, meant only for me. But the memories didn’t listen. They never did. My fingers turned the spinner in my hand faster and faster as if trying to catch my thoughts.

The image of him was burned into my mind, clear as the day I found him. My hands curled into fists, knuckles white, as my thoughts shifted to my mom. She didn’t find him—not the way I had. Didn’t see the aftermath of what her betrayal had done.

I’d spent months in that psychiatric ward after it happened. Months staring at white walls and sterile ceilings, too numb to care if the world kept turning without me. I’d shut down completely, disconnected from reality. But then, one day, I snapped out of it. Woke up in the shell of my own life, only to find it filled with something worse.

A new stepdaddy.

It didn’t take long to piece together the truth about that awful day. The yelling, the slammed doors, the empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter when I came home from school. She’d already moved on before the ground over Dad’s grave had settled.

The whispered words I’d overheard one night explained everything loud and clear.

The rage that had smoldered in the back of my mind ever since reignited, hot and sharp. I left not long after, couch-surfing with friends, bouncing around wherever I could find a roof and some peace. She still tries to reach out sometimes, her voice all honeyed regret, but forgiveness?

No. That’s not in me.

Because she’s my mom is the only reason she still walks.

But her new husband, my stepdaddy, didn’t get that courtesy.

My grip on the beer bottle tightened again, and I forced myself to breathe. My pulse slowed, but the bitter taste in my mouth didn’t go away. It never did.

I leaned back in the chair, letting the clubhouse noise filter back in, grounding me. For all my demons, I had built something here. I had these men, this family, and now Lucy. And I’d be damned if I let my past poison that too.