Kade’s Reckoning (The Satan Kings MC #2)

CHAPTER ONE

EDEN

The cottage feels like something from a postcard. It’s picturesque, with a slanted roof, creaking floorboards, and a garden Martha insists we will grow “real vegetables one day” even though neither of us can keep a basil plant alive.

Still, it’s ours. Ours in a way nothing ever has been.

Morning light spills across the mismatched kitchen tiles as I pour tea into two chipped mugs. Martha clatters down the narrow stairs, humming, cheeks flushed with the kind of glow I haven’t seen in a long time.

“Going to the farm shop later?” I ask casually, passing her the cup.

She bites her lip, not very subtly. “Maybe.”

Maybe . . . which obviously means definitely, because he’ll be there.

I smile into my tea. “Tell Tom I said hi.”

Her eyes go wide. “I never said his name was—”

I raise a brow. “Sweetheart, it’s a small town. The population is basically twelve. Of course, I know his name.”

She groans, embarrassed, but she’s smiling full and bright.

Tom has been good for her. This whole place has been good for her. For us. It’s quiet. Steady. Predictable in a way the club never was. You can walk everywhere, people wave when you pass them, and the postman knows we like parcels left in the shed.

And nobody here knows who I used to be.

No one knows the club. No one knows Kade. No one knows the life we’ve left behind.

I tell myself that’s a good thing. It’s a clean slate, a fresh start, but my heart still kicks whenever my phone buzzes, like some part of me expects his name to appear.

But it never does. I don’t call him, and he doesn’t call me. Those are the rules I set, the ones I still believe were necessary, but it doesn’t stop me from missing him.

I leave Martha to her humming and pull on my coat, stepping out into crisp air that smells faintly of woodsmoke.

The village street is only a few minutes long, lined with crooked cottages and tiny shops painted in pastel colours.

The bakery opens early, and the butcher is always sweeping his doorstep. Predictable. Safe.

It’s nothing like the city, nothing like the club.

Some days, I feel safe enough to breathe again. Other days, I swear I see a familiar bike in every shadow.

The bell above the bookshop door jingles as I step inside. Mrs. Wainwright is already behind the counter, glasses perched on the end of her nose, arranging a display of new hardbacks.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up.

“It’s five past nine.”

“In village time, that’s late.”

I hide a smile and slip behind the counter. “Anything exciting happening today?”

She finally meets my eyes, a spark in hers that means gossip is coming. “Oh, only that Bernie Taylor’s tractor caught fire yesterday. Right outside the post office. Nearly gave poor Mrs. Clarke a heart attack.”

I laugh softly. “How does a tractor catch fire?”

“That,” she says, “is the burning question.” And then she chuckles.

Working here has become something I look forward to—sorting stock, chatting with customers, listening to Mrs. Wainwright’s endless stories about who married who for money and who’s been feuding with their neighbour for twenty-seven years.

I didn’t expect to love it. But I do.

It’s peaceful, and for the first time in months, I feel like I’m breathing easily again.

My hand drifts to my bump, a soft, almost-round curve beneath my dress. I’m just shy of five months now, and the baby’s movements have started fluttering, delicate and dizzying. Sometimes, they take my breath away.

“You’re glowing,” Mrs. Wainwright remarks, still scribbling on her stock list. “That child of yours is going to be lively. I can feel it in my bones.”

I smile. “You say everything with certainty in your bones.”

“Because my bones are never wrong.”

The shop door jingles again, and a pair of farmers stomp in, arguing about livestock feed. From the pub across the road, a burst of laughter spills out from farmhands getting their morning fry-ups before heading back to the fields.

Martha would say this is the life we were always meant to live, and some days, I believe her.

But then there are mornings like this, when the ache returns, small and quiet but present.

A reminder of a man with rough hands and a gravel voice.

A man I left behind for all the right reasons, even though it felt wrong.

I call Fern twice a week, and we talk about everything except him. Not because I don’t want to know about him, but because hearing about him would make staying away impossible.

And I can’t go back.

A tap on the glass startles me. Martha stands outside, grinning, cheeks pink from the cold. She holds up a paper bag from the bakery, mouthing ‘treats for later’, before hurrying off again.

“I’m going to sit in the office and go over these figures,” Mrs. Wainwright announces before wandering off.

I press my hand back to my stomach. You can fall in love with a new life and still miss the old one with your whole heart.

“Baby,” I whisper softly, “I hope I’m doing this right.”

KADE

I stuff the cash in the safe and lock it. We’re doing well this month, better than we ever have.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Diesel comments from the doorway.

“I just counted the takings for the week. Add it to the rest of the month and it’s the best we’ve had in a long time.”

“Great. Maybe now you can take a backseat and help out in the shop. I’ve been running that place single-handed for months.”

I grin. “Clients love you. You’re doing a great job.”

“That’s not the point, Pres. You love tattooing. Why the hell are you driving delivery vans when you could be doing what you actually want to do?”

“We need to be involved. Cole is too important. I’m not screwing it up.”

Truth is, I take the heavy runs myself because I don’t want my drivers being stopped with heroin in the back. The prison sentence is too damn high, and the risk is mine. If something goes wrong, it’ll be on my head, not theirs.

“All this work and no play is avoidance,” Diesel mutters.

I laugh. “You’ve been listening to Fern for too long.”

Jet struts in, hips swinging. “VP said you need company,” she says, eyebrow raised.

I glare at Diesel. He shrugs, pretending innocence. “If you ain’t avoiding shit,” he prods, “what’s the problem?”

“I’m all good, thanks, Jet.” She rolls her eyes and leaves.

“She fucking hates me,” I mutter. “Most of the women do since Eden left. And I’m not using the whores when other brothers have been there.”

“It didn’t bother you before.”

“Well, I’m the President now, and it bothers me.”

Diesel changes tack. “Did you get your fortnightly update?”

Fern still keeps in touch with Eden. Every other week, she tries to update me on how well Eden’s doing, how settled she is. And when I shut her down, she tells someone else in the same room loud enough to make sure I hear it anyway.

I look down at my phone, pretending to check a message. “If we’re done, I’ve got a meeting.”

“Has she used the money you sent yet?”

I stand abruptly and grab my bike keys. I’m not discussing her. I can’t.

“Well, since we’re not talking about her,” Diesel adds, “you should know Martha reached out to Rabbit.”

I freeze. Eyes down. Heart hammering.

“Good for Rabbit,” I mutter, pushing past Diesel towards the door.

“He’s meeting up with her,” Diesel says. “In the village where she lives.”

My jaw clenches. He’s baiting me, and I refuse to bite.

After Eden left, I was obsessed over finding her. Planned a hundred ways I’d drag her back. But she made it clear in her letter that she needs space. And somehow, that letter was the reason I didn’t do shit. Cos if she thought all I was worth was a shitty letter, what’s the point?

So, Maggie kept me focussed. I worked my arse off. When I wasn’t working, I was in the gym. I got bigger. Made money. Stayed moving.

It doesn’t matter that I still want her. Still lie awake thinking about her. Still close my eyes and see that fucker hurting her.

But that torment keeps me grounded. It makes sure I stay away.

“The place can’t be that big,” Diesel adds casually.

I ignore him. “I’ll swing by the shop tonight, finish any late clients. You take an early one. Maybe take your old lady out.”

He keeps talking anyway. “Louth, apparently. Never heard of it, but it’s a nice little place in Lincolnshire—”

“Why are you telling me?” I snap, heat rising in my chest.

“Thought you’d wanna know where Rabbit is, in case you need him for a run or something.”

He smirks and walks away, his little grenade of information hitting exactly how he wanted.