Chapter 2
Zeus
The whiskey burns going down, but not enough.
I signal the prospect behind the bar for another. He pours without meeting my eyes. Smart kid. Everyone's learned to give me space these days—walk wide circles, keep conversations short, and don't piss me off.
The party rages around me. Music pounds from speakers someone dragged outside, the smell of grilled meat hangs thick in the summer air, and a couple of allied clubs are visiting for the festivities. Everyone’s celebrating Demon taking an ol’ lady and his ol’ lady graduating nursing school.
Me? I don’t give a fuck.
About anything.
I down the second shot and set the glass on the bar harder than necessary. The crack of glass on wood splits the noise. A few heads turn. I stare at the empty glass.
It’s been six months since I put a bullet between Fiend's eyes. Six months since I saved Rowan's life—and killed my best friend. Or the fucker I thought was my best friend. Turns out he was nothin’ but a goddamn rat.
What’s worse than a rat?
A fucking idiot who trusted him for eight years, that’s what.
I hung out with him almost daily—drank with him, rode with him, vowed to have his back in any situation. Fuck, I would have laid down my life for that motherfucker. And the whole time he was stabbing me in the back.
I was calling him brother, considering him my closest friend, and he was selling out the club to a Colombian cartel.
"Zeus." Chaos's voice interrupts my spiral. He leans against the bar beside me, Rowan tucked under his arm like always. “We’re celebrating, brother. Get your ass in the party mood.”
He waits.
"I'm fucking fine," I growl. He can fuck right off with his party mood.
Annoying motherfucker. Why can’t he leave me the fuck alone? I’m here, aren’t I?
Rowan touches Chaos's arm, a gentle pressure that says drop it. He does. They move away, and I'm alone again with my glass, my ghosts, and my sour mood.
The prospect refills it again without being asked—how many is that? I lost count, but I get up off my barstool and move over to lean against the wall. There. I’m participating. Woo-hoo!
The clubhouse door slams open.
A prospect, I think they call him Rambo, stumbles in, out of breath and wide-eyed. He scans the room, spots Chaos, and beelines straight for him.
“Prez. There’s someone at the gate.” The prospect shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable. “Uh…asking for Fiend.”
Chaos straightens.
I shove off the wall. “Who the fuck is asking for Fiend?”
"She says—" The prospect swallows hard. "She's his daughter."
My vision narrows. A hot rush of rage floods my veins.
Daughter. Fiend didn't have a daughter.
We told each other everything. Or I thought we did. Turns out we didn’t.
But I know he didn’t have a fucking daughter.
Whoever the bitch is at the gate, she’s full of shit. I don’t know what she wants. Or what she thinks she’s trying to pull, but I, for one, ain’t stupid enough to fall for—
"I'll handle it." Chaos is already moving toward the door.
I slam my glass down and follow. My hands ball into fists, and the familiar hum of violence that’s been ever-present these past six months hisses under my skin. This bitch picked the wrong motherfuckers to try to pull one over on.
I won’t hit a bitch. Or maybe I will. Just because I never have before, don’t mean nothin’. First time for everything.
Demon and Fury fall in behind me. Other brothers peel off from the party, sensing tension in the air. The ol' ladies follow too—Sarah, Kayla, Rowan—because why the fuck not have bitches all up in our club business?
It’s grown dark out, and we march up to the gate like a tattooed leather-clad army.
The woman—a girl, really—stands on the other side of the chain-link, under the security lights, looking like a doe caught in headlights.
Damn, she can't be more than nineteen or twenty. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. She’s wearing a tattered oversized jacket that swallows her frame and she’s clutching a duffel bag to her chest like a shield.
She's fucking terrified.
Her eyes dart from face to face as we approach almost as if she’s trying to figure out which one of us might be the meanest. Which one might hurt her first. Smart survival instinct. Wrong crowd to test it on.
Chaos stops a few feet from the fence. “Heard you’re askin’ for Fiend.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“You got a name?"
“I’m L-London." Her voice wavers but holds. "London Mitchell."
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
"Why you lookin’ for him?” Chaos asks, his tone neutral but cold.
“He’s my…um…” She shifts the duffel higher on her shoulder. “I mean, I think he’s…my father?”
The way she says it makes it sound like a question.
"Who told you to come here?" Chaos continues.
“Well…no one told… I mean, my mother...” Her voice is no more than a whisper. The girl’s chin lifts a fraction. "She said he was a biker in this club."
"And what exactly do you want from him?"
"I just…” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat and tries again. “Um, I…maybe to…meet him? Maybe talk to him?”
Again, spoken like a question.
A few brothers exchange looks. The glance between Chaos and Demon carries weight—should we send her away? Should we tell her?
My eyes are glued to her. I can’t look away. The way she holds herself—shoulders back despite the fear—reminds me of…
She shifts her weight, and the security light catches her face at a new angle. There’s bruising under her eye, a fresh gash on her cheekbone that’s scabbed over, and dried blood at the corner of her jaw.
Someone hit her.
The rage I've been carrying for six months—the anger at Fiend, at myself, at the whole fucked-up situation—shifts direction. Refocuses.
"Look at me."
The girl’s gaze snaps to mine and it feels like an armor-piercing bullet.
I step forward, close enough to the fence that I can see every detail.
Those eyes—light green eyes with a dark green ring around the iris. They’re unusual. They’re unique, but I’ve seen them before.
My breath stops. The last time I saw eyes like those, I put a bullet right between them.
The realization hits like a freight train. This girl—this terrified, injured girl—isn’t lying. She is Fiend’s daughter. And she's standing here looking for a man who's six months in the ground.
Because of me.
Maybe that means I should tell her to get the fuck out of here. To get as far away from here as fast as she can.
But I can't let her leave. Can't turn her away. Can't send her back into whatever situation left that cut on her face.
"Let her in."
Chaos turns to me and cocks a brow. I’m out of line. I know it. His look says: you trying to give orders to the club Prez?
I hold his gaze. My look says: I’ll take responsibility for her.
Fury runs a hand down his face and, trying to save my ass from Chaos’s fist, stars, “Zeus—"
"She ain’t lying,” I say quietly to Fury and whoever is close enough to hear.
A long pause. Brothers shift. The ol' ladies watch with expressions I can't read.
Chaos nods once. “Let her in.”