Page 130 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

My head whips toward him, taking in the sleepy, unassuming town we’re leaving behind. The cracked sidewalks. The weathered storefronts. The oppressive stillness. “Here?”

“Yep.” He nods toward a boarded-up structure tagged with fading graffiti. “See that clubhouse?”

I follow his gaze to the dilapidated building. Dead, like everything else in Valencia. “Looks abandoned.”

“It’s not. Hellfire Renegades just don’t get the action they used to. That was Jackson’s palace.” His thumb strokes absently over my hip—like he’s trying to tether himself.

Jackson Pype. The man Cade’s mother remarried.

When Cade talks about his past, he drops breadcrumbs—daring me to follow but always ready to pull me back.

A beat of silence stretches before he exhales roughly. “If Thomas had treated her right, Matilda wouldn’t have been easy pickings for a vulture like him.”

Thomas. Matilda. Jackson. Phoenix. Cade never uses the words “mother” or “father”—just names. People he’s obligated to acknowledge, but never more than that.

“You must’ve hated living here,” I prod gently.

Cade’s expression clouds. “Not as much as Matilda did. The only time she was ever happy was when she went to mass.”

I tilt my head, pushing just a little harder. “Did you hate your parents?”

He smiles wanly. “Quite the opposite. I loved them. Irrevocably.”

“Even Jackson?”

“Unfortunately, the asshole.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “But they were—no offense—shitty as fuck! Thomas beat your mom. Jackson was a monster!”

“That’s love, isn’t it?” His fingers tighten on mine. “Nothing wrong with loving someone who doesn’t deserve it, as long as you shield yourself from their abuse. That means distance. Or divorce.”

“Or death,” I finish glibly.

Cade grins, “Well, then.”

The tension breaks, and I find myself smiling back. But before I can follow up with another question, something in the air changes.

The outskirts of Valencia fade behind us, giving way to tall trees and dappled sunlight. The town ahead looks like something out of a postcard.

Harmony.

Cade’s grip on the steering wheel loosens as we pass through the town center. His shoulders drop, and a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, like being here melts something inside him.

And then I see it.

The Druids Motorcycle Dealership. Rising ahead is a gleaming steel structure that seems completely out of place in this quiet slice of small-town America. It’s bold and unapologetic.

“That looks like it belongs on Rodeo Drive!”

He chuckles. “Yeah, that’s our legit front: custom-made motorcycles.”

“Legit?” I arch a brow. “Why would you need anything else with a setup like that?”

“Because compared to interstate arms dealing, baby, motorcycle repair is peanuts.”

I blink in surprise, my gaze shifting back to the Druids’ Garage. Its polished exterior is a perfect disguise for what lies beneath. It’s not so different from the Mafia. My world just wears suits instead of leather.

Cade pulls into the lot, past a neat row of gleaming motorcycles. The clubhouse looms ahead, a timber structure with a wraparound porch that defies the town’s modest aesthetic. My breath catches as I take in the massive graffiti spanning one wall. It’s a replica of the tattoo on Cade’s back.

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