Chapter 20
Oisín
The first time Moth tells me I’m going on a logistics run to Rogue territory, I think I’ve misunderstood him. I look from Moth to Saint. “I’m sorry, what?”
“A remaining alliance handoff has to be coordinated on Rogue territory,” Moth says.
“Low-level logistics only. Not product. Documentation, payment reconciliation, and route confirmation for the last shared escort schedule. You’re the cleanest person to verify the paperwork because you understand both systems.”
“Cleanest,” Bricks repeats, rubbing a hand over his beard. “That’s one way to describe him.”
Moth glances at him. “Do you have a better term?”
“Prettiest.”
Saint looks up.
Bricks grins, entirely unrepentant. “I withdraw the comment for the sake of peace and my remaining teeth.”
I ignore both of them. Nearly two weeks ago, Saint made it painfully clear that no one got to drag me into runs, meets, warehouse checks, or anything else without going through him.
He said it like an order to the club and a promise to me.
I believed him because I wanted to, and because Saint is a difficult man to doubt when he decides the world is going to arrange itself around one of his rules.
Now he’s silent behind his desk, which means the rule is either bending or breaking, and I can’t tell which one frightens me more.
“Rogue territory,” I say carefully. “With Canon’s people.”
“With Bricks, Demo, and two additional Obsidian members present,” Moth adds.
“That doesn’t make it less Rogue territory.”
“No,” Moth agrees. “It makes it controlled exposure.”
Bricks snorts. “Moth, buddy, you make everything sound like a medical condition.”
“It is an operational category.”
“That’s worse.”
Saint sets the paper down. “You don’t have to go.”
The room quiets around that, Saint looking at me. I can see that he means it, too. If I say no, this goes away, which is a stark change from where I stood just two weeks ago.
I run my thumb along my ring, feeling the silver catch briefly against my skin. Saint’s eyes drop to the movement, then return to my face.
“I’ll go,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “You’re sure?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I’ll go.”
Something in his face shifts as he stands and comes around the desk, stopping close enough that I have to tip my head back.
Saint lifts his hand and catches the front of my neck, fingers spread under my jaw rather than around my throat, his thumb moving along the place where the buyer’s bruise has finally faded.
“All healed,” he whispers, his thumb lingering once more, then he leans in and presses his mouth to my jaw.
“You stay with Bricks,” he says. “You don’t wander.
You don’t let Canon pull you into a private room.
You don’t let Varina get you alone. If anything feels wrong, you leave the paperwork and get in the car. ”
I hold his gaze. “Yes.”
His mouth curves faintly. “That was very obedient.”
“It was agreement. Don’t get excited.”
Bricks makes a strangled sound behind us.
Saint’s eyes darken in a way that makes heat move under my skin. “Careful, Sín.”
Moth clears his throat. “As touching as this is, the handoff window is in forty minutes.”
Bricks stands with a groan. “There he goes again, ruining romance with clocks.”
“There was no romance,” Saint muses, pulling back from me completely.
Bricks looks at me. “He gets confused when things happen without bloodshed.”
“I’m learning that,” I throw back, my lips curving up into a soft smile.
Saint gives Bricks a look sharp enough to make another man reconsider his next breath. Bricks only grins, which proves either bravery or brain damage. Possibly both.
“Wait, why are we taking the car?” I ask as I follow Bricks into the lot.
Bricks unlocks it and jerks his chin toward the passenger side. “Because we might need room on the way back, and I’m already responsible for you. I don’t trust Demo with cargo, weapons, paperwork, or basic judgment. Himself included.”
The ride to Rogue territory is longer than it should be, mostly because Demo cannot stop talking. He’s in the back seat behind Bricks with one knee bouncing, a takeout coffee balanced precariously between both hands, and enough nervous energy to power the vehicle without gasoline.
Demo leans forward between the seats. “So, just for clarity, when we get there, do I look scary or normal?”
Bricks doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Those are both ambitious goals for you.”
“I can look scary.”
“Says the guy who apologizes to chairs after bumping into them.”
I glance back at Demo as his face reddens. “I only do it if it’s loud.”
Bricks points at him without looking. “See?”
Despite myself, I laugh. Demo grins like he has accomplished something important. “I’m just saying, Rogue territory has a vibe. No offense, Oisín.”
“None taken.”
“Because you’re not like them.”
The car goes quiet after that, just enough that Demo realizes he may have stepped somewhere sensitive. He sits back slightly, both hands around the coffee cup, guilt already spreading across his face.
I look out the window. “I am like them in some ways.”
Bricks glances at me.
Demo says, “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” I keep my eyes on the passing buildings.
“But I grew up here. I know the bars, the roads, the handoff points, the places cops avoid and the places they pretend not to avoid. I know how Canon’s men talk when they think they’re winning and how they talk when they’re scared.
That doesn’t disappear because I wear a different cut now. ”
Bricks turns onto a side road, quieter than the main stretch. “You miss it?”
I think about the clubhouse where I learned to disappear. Canon’s office. Varina’s laugh before she learned to sharpen it into a weapon. My mother’s voice in the kitchen, Irish softening the walls for a little while before she left and the Rogues filled every room she left behind.
“I miss pieces of it,” I say. “Not enough to go back.”
Bricks nods once. “That’s usually how it works.”
Demo, apparently incapable of letting seriousness live too long, leans forward again. “I’d miss Tally’s cooking if I ever got exiled.”
“You’d be exiled for talking,” Bricks says.
“Probably. But I’d be hungry.”
The car pulls into a small yard surrounded by tall chain link fences, two Rogues waiting near a battered metal table and a third smoking beside the bay door.
None of them are Canon, which helps me breathe easier until I remind myself that Canon not being visible has never meant Canon is absent.
Bricks steps out first and then gestures for us to follow, my old family watching me as I approach.
Demo gets out and immediately tries to look intimidating, which results in him standing too straight beside the back door with both hands clasped in front of him like a nervous bouncer at a church dance.
The Rogue at the table notices. “This the new Obsidian guard dog program?”
Bricks shuts his door. “Yeah. We breed them adorable now. Confuses the enemy.”
Demo mutters, “I’m standing right here.”
“I know,” Bricks says. “That’s what makes it funny.”
The paperwork is straightforward at first. Old escort schedule. Shared fuel costs. Two payment transfers already completed and one reimbursement still marked pending because the Rogues have apparently not discovered the thrilling concept of recording dates consistently.
The Rogue, Fenn, keeps glancing at me, rolling his tongue across his top teeth. “Oisín Ward,” he says, making a show of looking at my Obsidian cut. “Or is it Masters now?”
“Oisín is fine.”
Fenn’s mouth tilts. “Bet it is.”
I don’t look at him, only slide the first page across the table. “Your pending reimbursement is wrong.”
Fenn looks down. “No, it isn’t.”
“It is. You applied the northern escort cost to the eastern support run, then counted the same fuel charge twice. I assume by mistake.”
His eyes lift to mine. If he takes it, everyone gets to pretend no one tried to skim a few thousand dollars from a joint operation. If he doesn’t, Bricks is standing six feet away and already bored.
Fenn takes it. “Clerical issue,” he says.
“Of course.”
Demo makes a small impressed sound behind me, which I pretend not to hear.
The handoff takes twenty minutes longer than it should because Rogue records are exactly as irritating as I remember.
I correct three figures, initial two changes, and make Fenn call someone inside to verify a route code that hasn’t been active since before the alliance was signed.
By the end of it, Bricks looks ready to start charging everyone by the breath.
Fenn disappears through the bay door to get the corrected copy, leaving us in the yard with a gust of wind carrying the all too familiar smells of a place I called home. Demo shifts from one foot to the other behind me.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“That sounded like your polite yes.”
I glance back. “I have different versions?”
“At least four.”
Bricks says, “He’s right. That was number two.”
I hate that I want to smile. “What’s number one?”
“The one you use when Saint asks if you’re sore at breakfast,” Bricks says.
Demo chokes on air.
My face goes hot. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Bricks says. “It got weird in my own mouth.”
Fenn returns with the corrected page and a look that says someone inside yelled at him before sending him back out.
I sign the verification, close the folder, and tell myself the tightness in my chest will loosen once we’re back in the car.
The run is nearly done. Nothing has happened.
No Canon. No Varina. No ambush hiding behind the garage door.
Then I hear my sister’s voice coming from inside the bay, carried through a half-open side door near the office hall.
Bricks notices immediately. “Oisín.”