Chapter 34
Legend
The second I hear Royal took Becki out of the clubhouse, something in me snaps. The rage is instant, white-hot, and before I can stop myself, my fist slams into the concrete wall. The surface cracks under my knuckles, dust falling in slow little flakes like snow.
“She was supposed to be locked up,” I grind out as I round on Oaks, who suddenly finds the floor real interesting. “Who the hell told him he could take her off club grounds?”
“No one,” Oaks mutters. “He didn’t ask.”
“He didn’t ask because he knew damn well what I’d say.”
Royal, quiet, calculating Royal, doing something reckless is worse than anyone else doing it. Because he doesn’t make mistakes. He makes choices. And if he took Becki out, that means he chose her over protocol, over safety, over the club.
Whispers float through the clubhouse behind me.
Snatches of conversation.
Questions.
Doubt.
And every damn one stirs the pot simmering in my chest.
I stalk across the clubhouse yard toward our war room, boots pounding the cracked tile as I shove through the warped doors. The dying sun casts long shadows through bars on the windows that haven’t been useful in decades.
Crowley stands in the space, acting like he’s a shepherd instead of a wolf.
The Reverend turns when he hears me. “Legend.”
“Your losing,” I snap.
Crowley lifts one gray brow. “Is that what you think? I think you broke our agreement. Where’s my daughter?”
I don’t tell him Royal took Becki out without permission. “None of your never mind, old man.”
“She ain’t your prisoner?” he asks softly, his lip twitching.
“She damn well ain’t yours. She’s protected.
That was the deal.” As I say the words, true, because that’s all I promised him, that Royal would protect her, I realize, I’m already finding excuses for him.
I put an end to it. “But you’re right. Becki’s gone.
Vanished.” I decide to turn the tables on him, watch how he reacts. “Maybe the demon leaper got to her.”
He sighs, all weary disappointment. “My daughter has always been troubled. Perhaps she’s finally getting the guidance she needs.”
“Guidance?” I snarl. “You mean the same ‘guidance’ you gave those other girls before they disappeared?”
His eyes flash, just once, but it’s enough to peel the mask back for a heartbeat.
“You’re walking a dangerous path, son,” he says. “Accusing a man of God.”
“I wouldn’t care if you were God.” I step closer, invading his quiet little kingdom of ash and lies. “If you make one more move against this club, against Sophie, against anyone under this roof, I’ll put you in the ground you pretend to bless.”
Something tightens in his jaw.
Barely.
But I see it.
And I see something else.
Scratches on his neck.
Fresh.
Thin.
Like fingernails dragged hard across the skin.
Sophie’s height.
Or a frightened girl’s.
He turns away from me, dismissing me like I’m a sermon he’s already preached. He storms out before I put him through the bar. I follow him out. The air outside hits cold. Bitter. The fence rattles with wind, I follow him, not threatening, I fall back quite a way.
Mostly, I’m clearing my head. I lose him even and walk to the graveyard beyond, swaying like it’s breathing. Stones lean in crooked rows, teeth in a rotten jaw.
Then I freeze.
Something stands at the tree line.
Tall.
Lean.
Wrong.
My pulse spikes.
My breath stops.
It watches me.
Not moving.
Not hiding.
Just watching.
I draw my piece so fast the metal scrapes the leather holster.
One shot.
Cracking through the hollow.
Birds explode upward.
Leaves roar.
But the figure is gone.
Vanished between the gravestones like it stepped backward into a shadow.
I run down the hill, boots slipping, heart thundering. I search between stones, through briars, behind the mausoleum. Nothing. No tracks. No snapped branches. No blood.
Just cold.
A crawling chill, like grasping appendages.
I'm a bundle of nerves by the time I return to the Lockup. I grab a bottle from the bar and don’t stop drinking until half the bourbon is gone and the burn settles into something numb.
I collapse on my bed, cut still on, boots half unlaced. The bottle slips from my hand, rolling onto the floor with a soft thud.
Sleep drags me under, but it’s not peace waiting for me.
It’s her.
Becki. But not the Becki chained to a cot and spitting venom at the bars.
This Becki is the girl from the beginning.
Barefoot in the churchyard. Eyes bright with secrets. Laughter caught on her lips like a prayer.
She steps close, hair brushing my jaw, her breath warm on my neck.
“You were born for fire,” she whispers. “You’re not scared of father.”
Her fingers slide under my cut, palms splayed on my chest, feeling my heartbeat like she’s memorizing it.
“You want to hate me,” she murmurs, voice trembling but sure. “But you remember.”
I do.
More than I want to admit. I remember that night behind the chapel. The brick wall at her back. Her breath against my throat. Her fingers gripping my shirt.
The electricity between us, a heartbeat from something neither of us had any right to want. But I pulled away. Because she was the Reverend’s daughter. Because I was already drowning in sin. Because he wanted me with her. And that alone could keep me from her forever.
But now the memory claws at me. But not like regret. Like grief. I jolt awake, gasping, sweat cold on my spine.
The room is dark.
Empty.
Too quiet.
I don't know what freaks me out more. That Becki is out there with Royal. Or that I don’t know how to move on while she’s here.
One thing's for sure, though. There's something in Hell. Stealing our women.