Chapter 13 #2
The Rogues don’t want Oisín safe. They want him close.
They want what he sees, what he notices, what men say around him because they mistake quiet for harmless.
Canon didn’t value his son until another club put a claim on the very thing he ignored.
Now Oisín is inside Obsidian, and the invisibility that made him miserable makes him useful in a way even Canon can’t miss.
Sol continues, “Canon’s alliance posture is submission until it isn’t. I don’t need a surprise ambush from a club that’s supposed to be bending the knee because you got attached to a pretty weakness with sad eyes.”
“I don’t need to be told how to do my job,” I say. “But thank you. I promise you Oisín is not your problem.”
My father smiles around the cigar. “Then keep that pesky toy of yours in check.”
I leave before my anger gets the better of me, Bricks on my heels. He waits until we’re fully in the hallway, inches from the main clubhouse. “Saint.”
“Not now.”
“Yeah, now.”
I stop and turn on him. Bricks doesn’t retreat, which is one of the reasons he’s still my right hand and not buried under a road somewhere. He has known me too long to mistake every warning for a wall. Sometimes a warning is just the last decent chance to walk away before I become unreasonable.
He lowers his voice. “Your father’s poking because he got a reaction. Stop bleeding where he can see it.”
“I’m not bleeding.”
“You’re walking like the floor insulted your mother, so forgive me for missing the subtlety.”
My mouth tightens, and his expression shifts before I can answer. The joke drops enough to show the loyalty underneath it.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Sol called him toy, dog, weakness, and you looked like you were figuring out how many bones in his hand you could break before somebody got between you.”
“Nobody in that room would’ve gotten between me.”
“I would have.”
“For Sol?”
“For you,” he says, heaving out a heavy sigh. “You don’t need to give the old man proof that the kid’s a pressure point. He already suspects. Don’t hand him a map.”
For a moment, the only sound is the muffled clubhouse through the door. “The Rogues will try to use him.”
“Of course they will. They’d be stupid not to.
I don’t think he’s feeding them, but that doesn’t mean they won’t keep pulling on whatever family guilt they left in him.
” Bricks leans one shoulder against the wall, voice rougher now.
“He’s too damn transparent for spy work, and he looks at you like lying costs him skin. That doesn’t make him safe from them.”
“I know.”
“Then act like you know without acting like anyone who says his name wrong needs a closed-casket funeral.”
I glare at him. Bricks claps a hand on my shoulder. “See? Leadership advice. Free of charge.”
“Your advice is worth exactly what I pay for it.”
“Then you’re overpaying.”
I just shake my head as I step into the main room, the chaos of the clubhouse hitting me all at once.
However, there’s only one face I’m looking for.
Oisín is sitting at the bar near Tally, a half-finished plate in front of him and a beer held with both hands.
Demo is on his other side, talking with the breathless commitment of a man explaining something far more urgent than it probably is.
Two younger patched members linger nearby, one from Ash’s garage crew and one from Pike’s gate rotation, both careful with their distance and tone.
Tally’s presence keeps the whole thing from becoming stupid, but Oisín isn’t folded inward the way he was when he first arrived.
He listens. He answers. When the garage kid says something I can’t hear, Oisín’s mouth softens into a real smile before he hides it behind the rim of his mug.
He’s uncomfortable, but not lost.
I see the tension in his shoulders, the small hesitation before he speaks, the way his thumb rubs along the glass. I also see the room making space for him without being ordered to. My father sees a product. Canon sees an asset he failed to value. The club sees a question.
Oisín glances up and his eyes find mine, everything in his face changing by a fraction. As I pass, I drag my hand across the back of his neck, slow enough for everyone at the bar to see. His eyes lower, color brightening his cheeks.
Tally watches me with one eyebrow raised.
Demo stops mid-sentence, then starts again in a quieter voice.
“So anyway, the point is Halo says the nickname is historically inaccurate, which I think makes it funnier, but Pike says I’m too fragile for another headlock, so I’m not allowed to tell him that anymore. ”
Oisín answers him, but I don’t catch the words.
I keep moving toward my office, Bricks still following me. He waits until we’re out of earshot of the bar before speaking. “You watch him like he’s the product.”
I push into my office. “Shut up.”
He steps in behind me and closes the door with his boot. “No.”
“That wasn’t a request, Bricks.”
“You’ve been giving a lot of orders today. Figured one of us should keep count.”
I cross to the desk and set Moth’s printed report on top of the files already waiting there.
The buyer complaint stares up from the first page, all clean formatting and rotten implication.
I need to call Harlan. I need to review broker history, pull camera access from the Friday pickup, verify whether the counterfeit angle has legs, and decide how much pain the new buyer needs to feel for putting the word quality anywhere near a complaint about my product.
“He’s more than an asset to you,” Brick says, breaking the beginning of the silence.
I don’t bother looking up. “He’s useful. Tally likes him. He pisses off the Rogues. I call that a win.”
“That’s a list, not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
“Bullshit.” Bricks moves closer to the desk, the humor gone from his voice now. “We can all see it. I’m not even saying that like it’s a bad thing, Saint. He’s good for you.”
I laugh once, short and empty. “You sound like Demo.”
“Demo would say it with more stuttering and worse timing.”
“Then don’t make me compare you.”
Bricks plants both hands on the back of the chair opposite my desk and leans his weight into it. “You slept last night.” My eyes cut to him. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”
“You monitoring my sleep now?”
“I monitor things that make you less likely to break someone’s jaw before breakfast. Helps with clubhouse morale.”
I lean back against the desk, arms crossed. “What do you want?”
“I want to know where you stand before shit goes sideways.” Bricks clicks his tongue as he watches my face.
“Your father sees an actual product when he looks at that kid. Canon and the Rogues don’t care about Oisín except for what he can carry back.
Moth sees the brain. Tally sees the bruised little stray she’s already decided is staying.
Demo sees a friend because Demo has the survival instincts of a damp paper bag. Where do you stand?”
The easy answer is ownership. Mine. I took him.
I signed the contract. I put him in my room, my bed, my rules, my hand.
The easy answer should be enough because ownership is a language I understand.
But Bricks didn’t ask who Oisín belongs to.
He asked where I stand, and that makes the answer more dangerous.
So I give him the version that costs me nothing.
“I took him to piss off the Rogues. He’s useful, he knows routes, and he makes Canon look like an idiot every time he opens his mouth. He settles when I tell him to, and he’s got enough in his head to help Moth clean up problems we should’ve caught months ago. That’s all.”
Bricks listens without blinking. Then he snorts. “You avoided my question so hard you built a whole damn road around it.”
I push off the desk. “We done?”
“Yeah.” He turns toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. “But I think I got my answer.”
I don’t ask what answer he thinks he found. That would be another mistake, and I’ve already made enough before noon.