Page 40 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

"Your patch ceremony is set for next Saturday." He delivered it casual as weather reports, but his eyes tracked my reaction with laser focus. "Thor's agreed to sponsor you, Tyson will handle the ceremonial aspects. Full colors, full membership, full brother."

The room spun slightly. I locked my knees, maintained position through sheer will. Full patch. After months of prospecting, of proving myself, of rebuilding, I'd made it. Earned my place. Would wear the Heavy Kings colors with the right to call these men brothers in every sense.

"Thank you," I managed, voice steadier than my pulse. "I won't let the club down."

"I know you won't." Duke returned to his desk, but didn't sit. "Which brings us to the condition."

There it was. The catch, because there was always a catch in this life.

"This situation with your brother needs to be resolved." His voice carried the weight of presidential decree. "We can't patch you in with that kind of heat following you. Bad for security, bad for morale, bad for the statement we're making about who belongs in this brotherhood."

My jaw tightened. "I understand."

"Do you?" Duke's eyes bored into mine. "I'm not asking you to kill your twin, Wings.

But I am telling you that whatever action you decide, it needs to be decisive.

No half measures, no hoping he'll lose interest. The club will back whatever play you make, but it needs to end this threat permanently. "

Seven days. Seven days to neutralize a problem I'd been avoiding for months. Seven days to choose between the brother who'd shared my blood and the brothers who'd earned my loyalty.

Except that wasn't really the choice, was it? Alex had made the choice when he'd started threatening Kiara. When he'd violated our territory to photograph her sleeping. When he'd chosen obsession over moving on.

"It'll be handled," I said, meaning it down to my bones. "Before Saturday."

"Good." Duke finally sat, pulling out a bottle of bourbon from his desk drawer. Two glasses appeared, amber liquid poured with careful precision. "Now, let's talk about what happens after you're patched. Got plans for you, brother. Big plans."

Brother. Not prospect, not soldier, not asset. Brother.

I accepted the glass, let the burn of good bourbon chase down my throat. Listened as Duke outlined expanded responsibilities, new operations, the future he saw for me in the club hierarchy. But part of my mind was already working the Alex problem, running scenarios like mission planning.

Seven days was generous. Alex would force the issue long before that.

"You still with me?" Duke's voice cut through my planning.

"Yes, sir. Just thinking through logistics."

"Good man." He raised his glass slightly. "To new beginnings. And to ending old problems."

We drank, the covenant sealed in bourbon and silence. When I left his office twenty minutes later, I carried two weights—the honor of upcoming membership and the burden of what that membership would cost.

The night air hit cold, clearing my head as I crossed the compound. Bikes rumbled in the distance, brothers coming and going on club business. Soon I'd be one of them, fully vested, carrying the weight of the patches on my back.

But first, I had a brother to deal with. One who'd forgotten that blood alone didn't make family.

One who'd threatened the only family that mattered.

The nursery door stood slightly open, soft light spilling into the hallway alongside the quiet scratch of crayons on paper.

I paused outside, taking in the scene that still gutted me every time—my girl in her yellow duck pajamas, hair in messy pigtails I'd helped her with earlier, completely absorbed in her coloring.

She'd followed every protocol to the letter.

The check-in texts lined up on my phone: "Ate all my lunch, Daddy!

" at 12:30. "Drank two big glasses of water" at 2:00.

"Home safe, starting quiet time" at 4:15.

And now here she was, ready for bed thirty minutes before her required time, already in pajamas without being reminded.

"Such a good girl," I said from the doorway, watching her whole body light up at the praise.

"Daddy!" She dropped her crayon immediately, bouncing in her seat. "I did everything right today! Look!" She gestured at herself, then at the coloring book, then at the glass of water on her table. "Pajamas on, teeth brushed, and I'm being quiet like you said!"

The pride in her voice over basic tasks might have seemed strange to outsiders. But I understood the victory in it—after years of chaos, of managing everything alone, having structure to follow was freedom. The contract hadn't caged her; it had given her permission to let go.

"I can see that." I entered the room fully, stopping to examine her coloring page. A garden scene, all the flowers in shades of purple and pink. "Beautiful work, baby girl. Is this for me?"

"Yup!" She beamed up at me. "So you have pretty things to look at."

My chest went tight.

“I always have pretty things to look at when you’re around.”

“Daddy! You charmer!”

"Come here, sweet girl." I settled into the reading chair, patting my lap. "Daddy has something to tell you."

She abandoned her coloring instantly, climbing into my lap with the kind of trust that still knocked me sideways. The duck pajamas were soft under my hands as I settled her against my chest, her head finding that perfect spot under my chin.

"Good something or bad something?" she asked, fingers already playing with the buttons on my shirt—a self-soothing gesture I'd noticed increased when she was nervous.

"Very good something." I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the vanilla scent of her shampoo. "The vote was unanimous. My patch ceremony is next Saturday."

She went absolutely still for a heartbeat. Then exploded into motion, twisting in my lap to pepper my face with kisses. "My Daddy's going to be a real biker! A real Heavy King! Oh my god, Wings, this is amazing! I'm so proud of you!"

"Real biker?" I laughed, catching her hands before she could completely dishevel us both. "What have I been until now?"

"You know what I mean." She settled slightly, but her eyes still sparkled with joy. "Full patches. Real member. Brotherhood and everything official and—oh! I need to make something special!"

"Yeah?"

"Cookies!" She bounced again, mind already racing.

"Those ones you like with the brown butter and sea salt.

And maybe a cake? Do bikers eat cake at patch ceremonies?

I should ask Mandy. Or Mia! Mia would know about party planning.

Oh, and I need to find you a present! What do you get someone for becoming a real biker? "

"Baby girl," I interrupted gently, charmed by her enthusiasm. "You don't need to do anything. Just having you there is enough."

"Nope." She shook her head firmly, pigtails swaying.

"This is important. Life-changing. Deserves proper celebration.

" Her face went serious, that particular expression that meant she was about to say something that would wreck me.

"You worked so hard for this. Came here broken and built yourself back up. Earned everyone's respect."

Jesus. This girl.

"Kiara . . ."

"I mean it." She cupped my face in her small hands, forcing me to meet her eyes. "I'm so fucking proud of you, Gabe. So proud to be yours. To wear your collar. To share your name someday."

That last part slipped out, her eyes widening as she realized what she'd said. But she didn't take it back, just waited to see how I'd react to the assumption of permanence, of a future that went beyond contracts and collars.

"Someday," I agreed quietly, watching her melt with relief. "When you're ready. When we're ready. But yeah, baby girl. Someday."

She kissed me then, soft and sweet with an edge of desperation that tasted like promises. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet. "I love you so much."

"Love you too, angel." I shifted her back to cuddle position, needing her weight against me. "More than I have words for."

We sat quietly for a moment, her fingers returning to their button investigation while I played with one of her pigtails. The peace of it, the perfect domestic sweetness, made what came next feel like blasphemy.

My phone buzzed against my leg. Email notification, not text. I almost ignored it—nothing good came from email at this hour. But the subject line preview made my blood chill: "Remember This?"

I shifted Kiara slightly, angling the phone so she couldn't see the screen. Opened the email with careful fingers, already knowing it would be bad.

The photo loaded slowly. High school, some party I barely remembered.

But the composition was burned into memory—me on one side, Alex on the other, Kiara between us looking young and uncomfortable while Alex's arm possessively circled her waist. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

My own face showed barely concealed frustration.

The message below was simple: "You always wanted what was mine. Blood means nothing to you."

Rage flooded my system, hot and immediate. Not at the accusation—Alex had always been dramatic about perceived slights. But at him using this photo, this moment, as ammunition. Kiara had been seventeen, trapped in a relationship that was already showing warning signs.

Now he threw it at me like evidence of betrayal. Like I'd planned this all along instead of staying away for years, keeping distance even when every instinct screamed to protect her.

"Daddy?" Kiara's voice pulled me back. "Your whole body just went tight. What's wrong?"

"Another email from Alex," I said. Some might say I should keep the truth from her to protect her, but that just wasn’t me. I could never lie to my Baby Girl.

“Something bad?”

“No. It’s nothing really. Just him being a shithead. You don’t need to worry, I’m gonna fix it all.”

“Okay, Daddy. I trust you.”

She squeezed my hand.

It was an incredibly beautiful moment. Her trust in me was humbling.