Forty-Five
JENNA
The moment it became clear the Kings had business to attend to last night, I took up Jezabel’s offer to stay in the spare room out the back, sharing the space with Molly.
Secluded. Kept separate from the business of the main house.
My only mistake was deciding a drink might help me settle in the small hours.
I roll to my other side, tugging the blankets up around my neck, and watch Fang’s daughter sleep.
She lies sprawled atop a basic canvas cot, swaddled in a sleeping bag one of the guys provided.
Her arms are askew—one above her head and the other tucked inside the bag.
Lips parted, a gentle snuffle sounds each time she draws breath.
I wonder if I slept like that when I was a kid.
I wonder if Fang’s ever taken the time to do this; watch his daughter with wonder in her most innocent and vulnerable state.
My mind wanders to last night in the kitchen, my lips pressing against one another to relieve the ghostly tingles that tickle at the memory.
He’s so contradictory, and yet, the more glimpses I get of the man beneath the curated exterior, the more hopelessly addicted I become to finding that piece of him so goddamn conditioned by his upbringing that he can’t accept the truth his heart wants him to see: I’m not the enemy.
Not that it matters. My future isn’t here. And the longer I stay, the more complicated things between us will become.
I close my eyes and draw a deep breath. He’s not your focus anymore.
People arrived in the early hours of the morning, a steady stream of patched men with weathered faces and crooked backs, neither of which detracted from the immense presence they each brought to the room.
It never occurred to me how young the officers of the Minnesota Kings of Anarchy chapter are until I saw their predecessors.
A club shaped by men who no longer hold office at the table.
No wonder the current committee struggles against the world: it wasn’t molded by them or their own beliefs.
It was fashioned by those who no longer claim responsibility for the result of their actions.
I lift an arm above me, stretching my fingers wide in the shards of early light.
Darla slept upstairs with The Kid, wanting her separated from the visitors.
I heard Kathy moved across to Circus’s bedroom to give them space.
Something to ask about later. It surprised me that Fang was happy for Molly to share this room with me, but I guess that was just as likely to be the girl’s request as his desire.
I get along with her. She doesn’t judge me. And I appreciate that. I need that gentleness.
What did the men talk about last night? Apparently, several complained that it was too cold to hold church in the regular space, so they piled into Chaos’s office as Jezabel and I carried bedding out to this room.
A dozen or so men, all grim-faced and exhausted already when the fight had barely begun.
Gaze roaming over Molly again, I trace the lines of light that cast her body in stripes. Dawn came while I was asleep, as did the bone-weary realization that my time here grows to an end. Now that the men have decided on their next course of action, I have no reason to stay. No use to them anymore.
The only option is to move on. Hopefully, with a debt that’s paid. If it ever existed at all.
I inhale deeply, air whistling through one nostril, and roll to my back. I should get up. Steal a shower while the majority no doubt sleep off a long night of deliberation. But caffeine withdrawals demand I swing past the kitchen first. Fingers crossed I’m the only one there.
It feels like we’re two separate entities—the girls and me. The liar. The traitor.
They tried, at Vanessa’s last night, to reconcile.
But I really think it was Anna’s presence that kept the conversation civil.
The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife; poor Vanessa left, giving the three of us furtive glances when she thought nobody was looking.
She did a nice thing for us; it was just unfortunately timed.
My gaze slips to the new burner phone, resting atop the dresser. He never tried to call again—not that I expected him to. But there’s a niggling bud of truth that I can’t ignore, no matter how hard I try: my father is the only person who can help me decide what comes next.
The only person who understands why I was put in harm’s way when the Devil’s Breed knew who I was.
I carefully peel back the covers, shiver a little at the chill in the room, and reach for the warmth of the borrowed jersey. Tugging it over my head, I wait a moment for my residual body heat to warm it up before continuing. My jeans are rough and chafe against my cold skin, but it’ll have to do.
Molly rolls in her sleep, sighing before she curls tighter and continues to rest.
I creep past her setup and slip out the door. The morning chill slaps me hard, pinking my exposed skin. The air is icy, and remnants of frost sparkle on the ground as I dash across the concrete path and into the farmhouse, an involuntary full-body shiver rattling me after I close myself inside.
My gaze locks onto Loki’s.
And his.
“You want a coffee to warm you up?” Loki lifts his mug where he sits at the table past the galley-style kitchen.
Fang doesn’t blink beside him, predatory gaze locked on my chest. Right. I cross my arms to hide the twin evidence of how fucking cold it is out there.
“Sure.”
Loki nods toward the cabinets. “Pot’s hot. You know where everything is.”
Of course.
Fang sits with one elbow on the table, fist covering his mouth as though stuck in thought.
I don’t know what I expected today, other than not to feel so bad about hurting his feelings. All he’s done in his efforts to deny what he wants is wound me emotionally, and yet, I can’t help feeling about it like one would being bitten by a stray dog.
He’s callous to protect himself. His aggression comes from his fear, not his heart.
I’m not sure where we stand. Believing he wholeheartedly hated me was so much easier.
But then he kissed me—once, twice, three times, and tangled the truth in his wicked touch.
Why did he push past all the goddamn warning signs last night?
Was it intended as a one-off moment born from a stressful event?
Or did he have honest intentions of making it more?
The way he studies me now, I’d say so.
Not that it matters.
Stomach doing somersaults, I turn my back to the men and retrieve a mug.
It doesn’t change a thing, acknowledging the sexual attraction between Fang and me.
I’m still the mutt of a Breed officer, and he can’t undo the DNA in him that sees me as the enemy.
Lust will only get you so far before relationships require deeper connection.
I mean, if I allow myself to be delusional for a moment: could I imagine us living together?
Having a child of our own? Growing old, content with one another’s company?
Not as long as he sees the shadow of a three-headed dog on my back.
“Who’s making breakfast this morning?”
I startle when an older man wanders into the room from the parlor. He absently scratches at his bare belly, shirtless and covered only by a patchwork of fading ink hidden behind greying chest hair. He seems familiar.
The man’s eyes drift to me as I pour my coffee.
“You?” He grins. “Didn’t realize they’d finally replaced Reno.”
“They haven’t,” Fang snaps.
All eyes shift toward him.
“You wanna tell me who the tidy piece of ass in the kitchen is, then?”
If looks could kill, there’d be a bloodbath occurring right now.
“Have some fucking respect, Viper,” Loki scolds. “She’s one of the women we told you about last night.”
I’m regarded with a whole new level of scrutiny. “Where’d they pick you up, darlin’?”
I open my mouth to say when Fang interjects.
“You don’t have to answer him.” He stares into his mug as he swirls the last of his coffee and then promptly downs it. “Not until he earns some respect from you.”
“You fuckin’ finished with that bullshit?” Viper erupts at Fang. “Don’t know what new rules you pussies have put in place since my time, but I ain’t ever had to earn a woman’s respect to treat her how I want.”
“And that’s why Mom left you.” Fang snaps, rising from the table.
Viper’s muscles tense in his shoulders, a fist forming at his side.
“Careful,” Fang continues as he circumvents his father. “You might be a lifer, old man, but I’m an officer. I wouldn’t go laying hands on me if I were you.”
I melt against the kitchen cabinets and nurse my coffee for something to do, something to make it look less like I rubberneck the situation.
Leaving the room would draw too much attention.
Making myself breakfast would be pointless—I’ve lost my appetite.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Fang deposits his empty cup in the basin, warm scent filling my nostrils as he passes, and then smoothly turns to set a palm against the back of my neck. “Let’s go.”
I allow him to guide me from the room and toward the parlor, relieved, waiting until we’re out of earshot of the still grumbling old man to ask, “That’s your father?”
He jumps his eyebrows as though to say, “Yep. Lucky me, right?”
The stories about toxic masculinity and childhood neglect make absolute sense.
I guess you can’t expect them all to be good guys.
One percenters are lawbreakers for a reason.
Men like Viper choose to join an outlaw gang because it aligns with their beliefs, whereas his son…
I don’t know why Fang does what he does.
Lack of experience with anything else? Fear of losing everything he knows if he doesn’t?
Another older guy rouses on the sofa, a threadbare blanket thrown over his still dressed form.
“Mongrel,” Fang explains. “Jinx’s old man.”
“How many more are still here?”