Page 70 of Inked Daddies

“I am afraid no, love. If you don’t know how to use it, you’re likely to hurt yourself with it, or they can get it and use it on you. Or worse, they see you with it, and think you’re more of a threat, so they open fire without a second thought. As long as they don’t think you’re a threat in this, you’re an asset they want.”

She sighs, but nods. “Understood.”

Once in the truck, I sit in the back with her while Sam drives, Trick in the passenger seat. We speed through Auclair’s empty streets, the streetlights passing over Marie’s pale features. She grips my hand so hard it almost numbs. I let her. The adrenaline in my veins demands action, but all I can do is steel myself.

We kill the headlights blocks away from Preacher’s property. The silhouette of the house stands out, lights blazing in the windows, as though inviting us to a trap. The front yard—once meticulously kept—has signs of chaos even from this distance. Something is knocked over near the porch. A window is smashed. My jaw sets. Those bastards have desecrated their home.

Sam parks behind a scraggly row of shrubs. We exchange quick glances. “Marie,” he says firmly, “they’re watching us as we speak, which means they know it’s not just me and you, which is what Crow wanted. You stay in here, stay down, doors locked, no matter what you see or hear. If there’s trouble, honk. We’ll handle it. Get me?”

She swallows, tears glistening, but nods. “I…I understand.” She watches us clamber out, eyes huge with fear and anger. The door shuts, leaving her alone in the truck’s dark interior.

I hate leaving her, but it’s safer than letting her walk into that war zone.

We melt into the yard, using the flanking swamp to our advantage. No one wants to travel through the muck, the saw palmetto, or the knobby cypress knees in the dark. But we made this place our playground. We built Preacher’s home with our hands all those years ago, and Crow’s men don’t know it as well as we do.

I move to the right, crossing the swamp next to the side yard. The grass is damp, the air thick with the smell of upturned earth—someone might have driven a vehicle over the lawn. I can just make out shapes inside the house. Furniture? People?

Trick’s owl call signals from the left side that he sees at least one figure the living room. Sam caws his signal, each of us understanding we’ll converge in a matter of seconds. We want to do this quietly if possible.

Preacher’s inside, possibly injured. One wrong bullet could end him. They know we’re here, but they don’t know where we are now.

My hand tightens on my sidearm. I slip along the outer wall toward a side window, which is partially cracked. The faintest whiff of stale cigarette smoke wafts out. My nostrils flare. They’re making themselves at home.

Through a gap in the curtain, I spy a man rummaging in a cabinet, carelessly tossing aside whatever he finds. My blood boils. That cabinet might hold Preacher’s old photos or personal items. He tosses something, and the sound of glass breaking carries on the breeze.

Motherfucker.

I inch forward, scanning for more. I glimpse a second figure in the hallway, possibly armed, though I can’t see details. Where is Preacher? Did they tie him up in the living room? If he’s seriously hurt, time is not on our side.

29

MARIE

The airin Sam’s truck feels ice-cold against my skin, but I’m burning up from the inside out. Adrenaline or dread—or maybe both—pulses beneath my ribs, making my lungs work double-time. My breath fogs the glass as I lean forward, trying to get a better view of what’s happening on the lawn of my childhood home.

How did this go so wrong so fast?

If I’d just let Crow have?—

No. I can’t think like that. Even if this was only about me and my father, I still can’t think like that. But it’s not. It’s about Auclair too. Hell’s Hammers want this town. They’ve been taking over the parish, and we’re just the next town on their list.

If no one fights back, they’ll own us all.

I can’t see my father. He’s inside, and the thought alone tightens my throat. A dull ache settles in my chest from the memory of that picture Sam showed me. I’m glad he didn’t try to keep me from seeing it, but I understand why he didn’t want me to come along.

From the outside, I can see enough to confirm that armed men roam the yard, waiting like predators.

The porch light used to glow warm and inviting when I came home after a long day. Now, I’m huddled in the back seat of a truck, gripping the edge of the seat tight enough to hurt, my heart pounding an uneven rhythm in my ears, using that light to spy on the assholes who beat my father.

Hugo and Trick slip across the front yard like shadows. If I wasn’t watching so intently, I’d have missed them entirely. Their movements are coordinated in that uncanny way they have—shoulders hunched low, guns at the ready. Sam disappears around the other side of the house, presumably circling around to get to a back entrance.

I try to track him through the dark, but he’s too good at vanishing when he wants to, leaving me with no choice but to trust he knows what he’s doing. That’s the plan we agreed on. Sam goes in quiet, Hugo and Trick distract. I’m supposed to stay out of sight, inside the truck.

It’s a plan that makes sense on paper, except for one glaring problem. I am the reason we’re here. They want me. They took my father insidemy own homeas leverage. The men I love are risking their lives to get him back, all because the traffickers believe I’m valuable.

I’m not special. I don’t understand why they want me so bad.

Maybe I should be grateful that they insisted I remain in the truck, but it feels like a prison sentence right now. A gnawing panic churns in my gut. I keep swallowing, trying to quell the nausea rising up my throat.

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