Chapter 16 #3
He nods toward the edge of the compound, away from the picnic tables and curious ears.
I follow, curious what the fuck he wants with me specifically.
We walk until we're standing in the shadow of the clubhouse, far enough away that we won't be overheard but close enough that people can still see us.
Smart positioning—nothing that looks too suspicious or secretive.
"I talked to ángel today." Damián stops, turning to face me fully. His dark eyes are sharp, assessing. "He mentioned he had a feeling something might be going on between you and the DA's wife."
"Who's that?" The lie comes easy, rolling off my tongue smooth as silk. I keep my face blank, my body language relaxed.
Damián gives me a look that says he knows I'm full of shit but isn't going to call me on it directly.
"Look, be careful with that one. Daniel Reid is dangerous to the MC.
He has evidence against the Wicked Gods—detailed files on multiple members, years of surveillance, enough to put a lot of people away for a long time.
Your father and ángel have worked out deals behind the scenes to keep him at bay, to keep that evidence from ever seeing a courtroom.
But if he suspects you're fucking his wife, all those carefully negotiated truces mean nothing.
All bets are off, and the whole house of cards comes crashing down. "
"I get it." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
But hearing this pisses me off. My jaw clenches hard enough to ache, hands fisting at my sides. The thought of Reid—of that polished, corrupt piece of shit—having that kind of power over my family, over the MC, makes rage burn hot in my gut.
"I can see in your eyes that you're not going to end whatever you have going on.
" Damián's voice stays level, purely observational, no judgment.
"So just make sure you keep it under wraps, okay?
Be smart about it. Nobody is prepared for that kind of fallout—not the MC, not the cartel, not anyone who depends on this arrangement staying stable. "
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without saying something I'll regret. My throat feels tight.
"But if shit goes sideways, let me know and I've got you." He says it casual, like it's nothing, like he's offering to help me move furniture instead of promising cartel protection.
That surprises me enough that my eyes snap to his face, searching for the catch, the angle, the reason behind the offer.
"What?" He catches my reaction, his mouth quirking in something that might be amusement. "You're family now. That means something to me, even if it doesn't mean shit to you yet."
And that's that, I guess. Simple as breathing for him—family means protection, means loyalty, means having each other's backs even when it's dangerous or stupid or both. Maybe the cartel and the MC aren't so different after all.
The rest of dinner goes smoothly after that.
Most people accept Damián being here, and if they don't, they keep their mouths shut about it.
Smart move, considering who he is and what kind of power he carries.
Grace stays glued to his side most of the night, her hand in his, her body language completely relaxed and trusting in a way that still surprises me.
Like she's forgotten—or chosen to forget—how this whole thing started.
The ride home later gives me too much time to think, the highway stretching empty ahead of me under the darkening sky.
The bike's engine roar usually drowns out everything else, but tonight my mind won't shut up.
It keeps drifting to Fallon, to everything I learned tonight about her husband, to the weight of Damián's warning sitting heavy in my chest.
I really don't like what I've heard about Daniel Reid.
Don't like it at fucking all. He sounds like a piece of shit wearing an expensive suit and hiding behind a political office—the worst kind of corrupt, the kind that thinks power makes him untouchable.
And he doesn't deserve Fallon. Doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her.
Shit, neither do I. I know that. I'm eighteen, still figuring out who the fuck I am, with nothing to offer her except danger and complications. But I fucking want her anyway. Want her so bad it's becoming a problem I can't ignore no matter how hard I try.
I know I deserve her more than he does. Everything I saw last night at that fundraiser leads me to believe he thinks of her as a possession—something pretty to display when it suits him, to control when it doesn't. The way he pulled her around that ballroom but never talked to her directly, never really let her talk to anyone else or form her own connections.
Never let her fucking breathe. She was drowning in that dress and those pearls, suffocating under his hand at her back, and no one else seemed to see it but me.
If she was mine, I'd let her shine like she deserves to. I'd let her laugh loud and wear whatever made her feel beautiful and talk to whoever the fuck she wanted. I'd give her space to be herself instead of whoever he's trying to force her to become.
And I don't give a fuck if she's pregnant or fucking married.
I want her.