15. Nash
15
NASH
Locke and Ranger followed Folk into the dark waves. Watching from afar, Viktor sank to one knee, passing wet sand between his fingers.
Decoy didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe .
Me? My tears froze in the wind until a sudden downpour washed them away.
After, too wet and cold to safely ride home, we left the beach and headed further north through the storm, to the Whitlock farm two miles from where we’d laid Rocco to rest.
It was still dark enough to be considered nighttime, but Folk’s parents expected us. Warm lights lit the long driveway, and as we reached the old farmhouse and dismounted, the front door opened and two tiny boys ran out. To Ranger , the brother they called Uncle Ash.
Fucking-A, I wasn’t ready for that. Couldn’t watch. I went to Locke instead, seeking the comfort he probably needed more than me. I stepped into his waiting arms and held him so fucking tight. “I love you.”
Beneath his wet clothes, a deep breath shuddered through him. “I fuckin’ love you too.”
“You okay?”
“Will be. Sounds fucked up, but we needed this.”
Of course they had, and it killed me I’d never thought of it as much as it had hurt Saint to suffer his epiphany. He didn’t bear guilt well. It ate away at him, but I’d sensed his presence at the beach, even if I hadn’t seen him, and I hoped to God he’d found closure in this too.
I let Locke go.
Folk’s mum—Jekka—hustled us inside, passing out dry clothes, and I found myself enveloped in the family home I prayed we’d give our own kids. Hot food and open fires. Photos on the walls. Sports trophies. Rowdy family Christmases.
A big armchair took me hostage. Jekka plied me with lasagne and homemade bread that would make Rubi weep. Then she stole Locke, and I found myself caught in the vortex of watching Ranger play LEGO with the boys while Viktor, overcome by the same view and knackered from the road, fell asleep on a nearby couch.
Decoy knocked out too.
I ate my food, emotion squeezing my chest with every nurturing fucking bite. I needed company, but Folk had disappeared and Locke was thoroughly ensnared by the Whitlock parents.
That left me still watching Ranger, the brother who claimed to hate kids, but maybe a few exceptions had snuck through. Swear to God, I saw him pick up Hope the other week and hold her for six seconds before passing her to Viktor.
My gaze strayed to the sleeping Russian mobster I now counted as a friend. His head rested on his bent arm, boots tucked beneath the couch. The sitting room was cosy enough, but fretting he’d get cold had me up and dropping a blanket over his legs.
Ranger caught me, the surfer hoodie Jekka had brought him loose around his lean shoulders. His coal-dark eyes were red-rimmed and weary, but he smiled, and I banked it for when I needed it later.
I returned to my chair. Ranger built more LEGO, one of Rocco’s little fellas content to watch from his lap, the other tracking every brick while climbing Ranger’s back from behind, reminding me of Logan’s boys—Billy and Sam. Of Locke and Logan. Three sets of magical twins, and blessings like that came in threes, right? What if that meant there was no room in this world for ours?
The dark thought came out of nowhere. Unprepared, fear barrelled through me, eviscerating my composure. I needed out before I lost my shit in front of Rocco’s perfect boys.
I rose from my armchair sanctuary and slipped outside. I hadn’t brought a vape—I was trying to quit. Needing a distraction, I leaned on my phone, scrolling through the hourly updates our family were sending from home. Orla and Willow. Orla with Liliana and Hope. Already the best ma in the world without even trying.
I sniffed.
Fuck , I was a mess.
Later messages showed Orla asleep in our bed, Ivy tucked under her arm, her hair thicker and longer than ever. I stared at the photo for a hundred years, but as dawn began to turn the sky over the Whitlock farm hazy and grey, I needed more. So I called a brother I knew for sure would already be wide awake.
“She’s fine.” River’s prickly voice filtered down the line. “Still asleep.”
“I know.” I found a bench on the frosty porch, lanterns and plant pots everywhere.
“Why are you calling then?”
“Can’t a brother call a brother to say hello?”
River made a noncommittal sound. I heard the whine of Orla’s fridge door, the hiss of the kettle. The clash of pans as River opened a cabinet and fucked everything up.
I winced. “What are you doing?”
“Making hash.”
“Corned beef or a zoot?”
“What do you think?”
Logic said the first—it was Orla’s favourite thing to eat right now and only her brothers could make it the way she liked it. Found myself craving the second though. And the brawny comfort of my best friend, even as his loud as fuck voice rumbled in the background.
“That my Nashie?”
“Course it is.”
River gave up the phone without saying goodbye. I heard Rubi plant a smacker on him, then he was right there, exactly where I needed him. “What’s got you all emosh?”
“How do you know I’m emotional?”
“You called Riv for some tough love.”
“Didn’t.”
“Did so. You never come to me first in case I make you cry with my bolstering wisdom.”
“Your what now?”
“I’m clever and cuddly. Deal with it.”
“What good is cuddly if you’re not here?”
“Not everything’s literal. How did it go?”
Suffocating emotion got the better of me again. I wrenched a breath from my lungs, picturing the grief in Folk’s wise eyes, the hurt in Ranger’s, and the sadness in Locke’s. “Brutal to watch, but they made it beautiful.”
“You didn’t watch, you were there.”
“They scattered him in the wind.”
“They set him free, Nashie.”
Like we should’ve done years ago, but the time for what ifs was long gone. I leaned forward on the bench as I listened to Rubi bustling about Orla’s kitchen, righting whatever mess River had already made, weathering the storm he got in return. Belligerence was River’s love language. Rubi lived for it, and in this moment, so did I. Wasn’t sure why they were arguing about Rubi’s passport, though. “The fuck you need it for? It’s about to expire.”
“I had good hair in the picture.”
“You had no hair in the picture, and you were going through your unforgivable hat phase.”
“What are you trying to say about my sartorial elegance?”
“That none of us need a reminder of your buzz cut days.”
Rubi sighed. “S’pose you’re right. I didn’t love having cold ears all the time.”
“And you do love having a mane to shake in my face whenever it rains.”
Rubi grumbled something—at me or River, I couldn’t tell. Movement beyond the house distracted me and I shoved my phone in my pocket, freeing my hands, gaze laser focused on the lone figure approaching from the still-dark fields in the distance.
For an honest to God minute, I mistook the man for Saint. Then I thought it was Folk—if he’d grown a couple inches in the last ten minutes, put a little lumber on, and lightened his hair to a honey-wheat blond.
Poet Whitlock.
Had to be, and as the fella drew closer, I realised that bar the shape of his silhouette on the foggy horizon, he looked nothing like Saint either. Which should’ve made sense, but I was tired, emotional, and without the people who usually fixed that for me.
Poet reached the porch, assessing me in the sage way that was perhaps a Whitlock thing. “You okay?”
Lord knew what my face was doing. I scrubbed my hands down it and rose. “Yeah. Sorry. Half asleep. Nash. Nice to meet you.”
Poet studied me closer. “Nash?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. Ivy told me about you. I’m Folk’s brother—” Definitely Poet — “You need anything?”
I glanced behind me, longing for Locke. “Nah, I’m all right. Thanks though.”
Poet said nothing.
I turned back to find his scrutinising stare had intensified.
“Deaf.” He tapped an ear. “I need to see your face when you speak.”
“Oh. Fuck. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His features relaxed into a grin that was all Folk as he repeated his question. “You need anything?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
“All right, then.” He moved past me, clapping my shoulder before he disappeared into the house and I remembered I’d left Rubi in my pocket.
Fucking-A.
I retrieved my phone. He’d hung up, but left me a one-star review of my people skills. He’d also informed me I’d drawn Alexei in the secret Santa, which had to be a fucking wind-up, but the distraction felt good. My lungs remained gnarly with unspent angst, but Rubi had lightened the load enough that I began to appreciate the beauty of the land we’d rolled up to in the dark.
Glittery sunshine broke through the clouds, sparkling on the frosty fields and rustic outbuildings. Polytunnels had been blended into the landscape with natural materials, interspersed with orchards and ancient trees, rope swings hanging down.
Saint would love it here .
“Everyone says that.”
I shifted my gaze from the horizon as Folk filled the space beside me. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”
“Why not? It’s not a bad opinion to voice.”
“Ain’t a good look to be talking to myself, though, eh?”
Folk chuckled and pressed a mug into my cold hands. “It’s not the worst.”
We took a seat on the bench I’d vacated.
Folk stretched his legs out, in jeans for once instead of the cargo shorts he usually lived in, more relaxed than I’d seen him in forever. “Any word on Saint getting home?”
“You felt him too?”
“Actually, no. I wouldn’t have noticed a herd of elephants chasing us tonight. He rode past Poet’s place a while ago, heading home.”
“I thought your brother lived here.”
“He does, sometimes. But he likes his own space too—or even his own farm, one day. Our parents are a lot.”
“Mine are too, but they’re nothing like yours.”
“What are they like?”
I wasn’t in the mood to explain, but Folk’s kind and twinkly gaze was hard to resist. “Religious. Violent.”
Folk didn’t blink. “I’m sorry, brother.”
“Not your fault. I never really told anyone, except my uncle.” I sipped the drink he’d brought me, expecting tea, but it was some weird shit with a cinnamon stick I stared at while decades old bullshit scraped at me. Change the subject . “I didn’t know Rocco was from here, or that you’d been friends as long as you had. I’m sorry you lost him the way you did.”
Folk accepted the sentiment with a wry smile. “It was all right in the end. I got to keep an old promise and there’s a lot of peace in that, for all of us, not just me.”
I pictured Ranger’s face when Cam had climbed into his cab to give him the news. The relief, as if he’d feared the world was about to fall on his head, and Folk’s words meant something to me. They meant everything.
“How old is your brother?”
Folk turned away from the lightening sky. “Twenty-six.”
I whistled. “You’ve got a decade on him.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Feeling old?”
“Feeling guilty,” Folk confessed. “I thought I’d be around for him more when I left the forces, but it hasn’t panned out that way.”
“You’re not close?”
“I left when he was eight. Wasn’t here when he needed me the most. It’s hard not to feel like I chose war over him.”
“That how he feels?”
Folk shrugged. “He’s not a big fan of deep conversations. He stayed away when I first brought Seth and Ivy home though. As if he didn’t trust me to stick around long enough for him to love them.”
I knew that had changed. Ivy talked about Uncle Po and the mad tractor rides he took her on all the time. But it was a rare day Folk needed me to tell him anything and today wasn’t one of them.
We lapsed into a companionable quiet. I felt like I could sleep, if not for the fear that this would be the night I’d break my run of not sleepwalking since Locke had escaped Priest, and I knew I had to before we rode home. Didn’t know where, though. Like most of the last twenty-four hours, I was a passenger.
Folk, though, he was fucking psychic. Taking my empty mug, he swapped it for a key. “There’s a cabin over that way, through the orchards. Locke knows it. Light a fire and get some sleep, brother. I’ll find you when it’s time to go.”
He rose, squeezed my shoulder, and went back inside.
I stood too, flexing my leg, gritting my teeth at the stiffness there. Harry, my friendly physio, had warned me against long rides in the cold, but I couldn’t have been anywhere else right now, and the longing in my heart for Locke returned tenfold. With the key in my hand, I glanced through the nearest window, catching him in the act of unfolding his extra-long frame from his seat at the Whitlock table.
Locke rubbed his back, his grimace one that I felt all the way to my titanium bones, but his phone distracted him, buzzing with the same rhythm as mine, a notification from the group chat that deliberately excluded the unmanageable Elders.
Embry: Saint’s home
I relaxed a little. Part of me wished he’d stayed and come to this magical place with us, but in my heart, I’d never change that brother.
Not for anything.
I clicked out of the message thread as another text buzzed through. A different group chat, one that made my heart skip with the happiness that was so fucking close.
Orla. She’d sent a photo of an empty plate resting on her big belly.
I started to smile as another message popped up. Then a full-on grin split my face.
A smirk.
Orla: I don’t expect you two home until you’ve found somewhere magical to fuck each other’s brains out. Don’t let me down xx
God. Damn.
I glanced through the window in the same moment Locke blinked away from that scorching text.
He met my gaze with a hot stare of his own and inclined his head to the door, the message as clear as if he’d growled it in my ear with his deep, deep voice.
You heard our queen. Let’s go.
* * *
Locke emerged from the house and grabbed my hand without saying a word. He towed me off the porch and onto the crunchy grass, leading me to the thicker woodland that shielded the house from the sea.
With the key Folk had passed me burning a hole in my pocket, I didn’t ask where we were going. Just enjoyed the view of his scruffy profile and crinkly grin. His hand so warm in mine. Locke was everything I’d never known I needed. The only thing missing was Orla, but it didn’t feel that way. She’d taught me to cherish these moments with Locke as much as the ones we spent all together, and I’d become quite the fucking expert.
Deep in the woods, we came to a clearing and a wooden cabin Saint really would’ve loved. A simple build of two rooms and a panoramic window that looked out over the ocean in the near distance.
The log burner was already lit. I moved to the window and took in another healing view. “This is nice.”
Locke moved in behind me, sliding his arms around my waist, easing me back to lean on him, taking some weight from my sore leg. “It’s Folk’s. Built it when he was twelve. Think Poet still sleeps here when he’s not in the mood for the house.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve knocked out here a few times.” Locke kissed my neck. “I don’t really remember.”
Because he’d been broken, in the past and in more recent memory, and Folk had brought him home to put him back together. “I’m glad you had him—had them —to help you when we couldn’t.”
Locke turned me around and cupped my face with both hands. “You have nothing to be fuckin’ sorry for. Take a breath, Nash. Everything’s okay.”
He’d had to say that to me a lot over the past few months. Around everyone else, I was better at hiding the anxiety that wasn’t going to shift until our babies made it earth-side and Orla survived the journey. Around Locke, I’d stopped trying and grown to depend on the steady comfort he offered at every turn. I believed him. I loved him.
I fucking needed him.
We fell into the kind of kiss that had only one ending. The kind that shed our borrowed clothes and left us bare to the toasty heat of the fire. To the birds who were the only creatures with a chance of seeing us.
Locke held me close, so solid and warm. He held my gaze and drew me to the bed, laying me down and covering me with his body, knowing what I needed.
And how I needed it.
He wasn’t gentle. He overpowered me, and I let him. I gave myself up to it, emptying my crowded mind with every rough touch. Every bruising kiss. Every calloused palm Locke passed over my aching dick.
My lungs descended into chaos, snatched breaths going nowhere. I arched my back, legs widening to make room for Locke.
He smirked and rolled me over, dumping me on my stomach, and I was here for it—I lived for it. Cos that daddy kink Rubes liked to ream me about?
It was fucking real.
Locke found lube from somewhere and slid that big dick into me while I gripped the edge of the mattress in front of me. He was gentle with this part, and I was grateful. As much as I believed I’d been made for him, I needed a minute, and he gave it to me.
Then he gave it to me . Fucking me. Loving me. Chasing every stress and worry away with every deep drive of his cock inside me.
I was a mess for him, muffling my groans in sheets that smelled of fresh air and the ocean, gripping that mattress so hard it was a fucking wonder I didn’t rip it in two.
This feeling, this pleasure, there was nothing like it. It took me to another goddamn realm, and I came before I really knew it was happening.
Locke slowed his pace, still rock hard, of course, even though I’d felt him come too, heard him groan my name. Of us all, Locke was the one who truly had the stamina for two lovers.
He eased out of me and rolled me over, using a towel he’d magicked up from somewhere to wipe my hand.
My breathing was still fucked.
So was his.
We weren’t done.
Locke tossed the towel and loomed over me, the caged bird on his chest rising and falling with every laboured breath, a flush staining the few swathes of his skin that weren’t stained with ink.
He dropped a fist by my head and curved his other hand over my hip, lifting my pelvis from the bed, notching us together, slowly edging inside me again.
Can’t lie, it burned, but I liked it, and new heat bloomed in the pit of my belly, spreading lower as Locke set a grinding rhythm I had no hope of resisting.
He fucked me hard again, his gaze never leaving mine, that sea-green intensifying as every driving thrust drew us closer, in every sense of the word.
I didn’t touch my dick. Forgot about it, in a weird way, cos this didn’t feel like fucking. One shaky hand slid from Locke’s jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the sweat-damp hair I found there. The other ghosted down his spine, dancing over the scars there, some healed, some that still, even now, caused him enough pain to keep him up at night.
Pushing that fuckery aside was tough, but the second release brewing inside me took no fucking prisoners.
Locke kissed me, momentum building in his powerful body, sweet tension straining his muscles. “I fuckin’ love you.”
“I love you—damn.” Pleasure bolted through me, my good leg tightening around Locke’s hips, the mashed one sprawled at an angle I’d pay for later. “I’m gonna come again.”
How, I had no clue, but my body didn’t give much of a fuck. Or it gave lots of fucks. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the raw love in Locke’s deep gaze as he emptied inside me a second time, and the heat of it booted me over the edge of something I didn’t come back from for a while.
So I didn’t notice I was fucking crying until it was way too late to stop.