Page 156 of Boulder's Weight

Boulder's expression shifts, a darkness passing behind his eyes. "Still nothing concrete. But he's not giving up. None of us are."

Brick left three months ago, following a lead about Lashes in Eastern Europe.

The club has called in every favor, used every connection—including Alejandro's cartel contacts—trying to track her through the trafficking networks Sally sold her into.

So far, there have been whispers, possible sightings, but nothing solid.

It's the one wound that hasn't healed, the one shadow that still falls across the club.

"He'll find her," I say with more conviction than I feel. "He has to."

Boulder nods, setting down his coffee to pull me against him again. "He will. And when he does, we'll bring her home. She’s his best friend, you know. He’s not gonna let her be used and abused."

The certainty in his voice steadies me, as it always does.

In the months since he received his full patch, Boulder has become one of Amara's most trusted brothers, his voice carrying weight in church that’s surprising for being so newly patched in.

The club respects him not just for his loyalty or his skills, but for the control he maintains, the focus he brings to every task.

Qualities they attribute, at least partly, to me.

"Old lady magic," Oakleigh called it once, laughing. "You're Boulder's anchor."

The irony isn't lost on either of us—the man who once proclaimed old ladies were nothing but dead weight now proudly wears my crow on his arm, a tattoo he got just a month after receiving his patch.

A permanent declaration of what we mean to each other.

"What time do we need to be at the clubhouse?" I ask, glancing at the clock.

"Noon," Boulder replies, releasing me to reach for his coffee again. "Gives you plenty of time to finish that piece for Astra."

The piece—a large canvas depicting Luna and the other café cats lounging in patches of sunlight—is my latest commission.

After Astra hung some of my sketches in the café, customers started asking if they could buy prints.

Now I split my time between working shifts at CatsAndJava and drawing in the small studio Boulder converted for me in one of our three spare bedrooms.

It's not the life I'd imagined for myself, but it's better than anything I could have dreamed up.

"I just need to add some highlights to Luna's fur," I say, already mentally thinking about the colors I’ll need. "Shouldn't take more than an hour."

Boulder watches me, a familiar warmth in his eyes. "I'm proud of you, you know. Building something for yourself here."

The simple praise means more coming from him than it would from anyone else.

Boulder doesn't waste words, doesn't offer empty compliments. When he says he's proud, he means it.

"Couldn't have done it without you," I reply, setting my mug in the sink. "Without the club."

He shakes his head, coming to stand beside me. "You would have found your way eventually. That's who you are, Montana. A survivor. I just made the road a little easier."

I lean up to kiss him, soft and sweet, before heading toward my studio. "A lot easier," I correct him. "And a lot less lonely."

The hours pass quickly, my attention absorbed in the play of light across Luna's fur, the subtle shift of colors needed to capture her essence on canvas.

By the time I set down my pencils, satisfied with the final result, it's nearly eleven.

I shower quickly, changing into the outfit I've laid out for today—dark jeans, a black tank top that shows off the small Reapers Rejects emblem tattooed on my shoulder blade, and Boulder's old prospect cut. He gave it to me the day after he received his full member cut, insisting it looked better on me anyway.

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