Page 9 of Secret Betrayals
I wave them off. “I’m fine.”
Liar.
Why the hell did they insist on this meeting before noon was beyond me. Most club business happens after dark, followed by the usual parade of whiskey, girls, and bad decisions. Or so I’ve heard. According to Luca, it’s never been his scene.
Then again, Luca’s always hated LSMC. And for good reason.
I dig my phone out of my bag, scrolling through messages, trying to distract myself. Trying to calm the hum in my chest that keeps threatening to rise. I can feel her—that version of me—scratching at the edges, trying to claw her way to the surface.
But I won’t let her.
This place won’t take me back to who I was.
It won’t turn me into her.
Iwon’tlet it.
As we drive up the gravel road, I slip my phone back into my bag and pull out my sunglasses. Slide them on. Malikai and Sebastian follow suit. Not because of the sun—though it’s damn near blinding at this time of day in this part of California—but because we all know what’s coming. I don’t need these people reading me. Not yet. The moment I step out of this car, the war behind my eyes will try to leak out. I need a minute. A layer. A barrier.
The vehicle rolls to a stop in front of the clubhouse.
Seventeen years ago, this place was impressive—an old hotel with bones and attitude. Now? It’s something else entirely. The renovations didn’t stop at the gate.
I take it all in. The building is still five stories tall and stretches two blocks wide. That hasn’t changed. But the mirrored-glass center? New. Shiny. Bulletproof, no doubt. It’s beautiful, sure. I can admit that.
Balconies now span across the facade, all new construction. The stucco’s done in a gradient of cold grays that blend with the gravel drive. Giant potted plants flank the entrance like sentinels. The landscaping is tasteful, clean, and upscale. That’sVera’s touch—Talon’s mother and the former first lady of the club. She had class, unlike the current one. And that’s not me being petty—it’s a fact.
Even if I tried not to hear the rumors, I would’ve known.
What surrounds this place is sleek, controlled, and curated. But the people inside? Wolves in tailored fur. Appearances lie. I should know—I’ve worn that lie for years.
From here, the building could still pass as a luxury hotel… if not for the club’s emblem painted bold above the double doors. Skull. Demon horns. Wings. Crossed scythes. It’s meant to intimidate.
It doesn’t.
Not me.
The row of Harleys parked to the left of the entrance tells the truth. The scattered cars to the right can’t soften the growl of chrome and steel this place rides on. My visual sweep ends as my team exits their vehicles. Armand follows, directing the men like clockwork. My brother Sammy didn’t come himself, but he didn’t send me in softly either. He knows history runs deep here—and that history’s mine. So he stacked the deck. I’ve got a primary and secondary team—two Escalades, twelve soldiers in total. I told him it was too much. He said it wasn’t up for debate.
Typical.
I roll my eyes as the men run through their checks. I love my brother, but he’s always done the most. I’m not made of glass. I know how to handle myself. I've bled and bled out worse.
This is just a club.
One of the biggest on the West Coast, sure—but everyone bleeds. They won’t start a war with someone from the family. They can’t afford that kind of smoke, which makes this little militia overkill.
When the security ballet ends, Armand makes his way to my door. I already see the locals watching. Club members loiter at the entrance, sipping drinks, eyeing my convoy. Looks like they’re having some kind of party.
Of course they are.
Balloons. Streamers. A tacky-ass backdrop that screams birthday. It's barely midday, and these people are already doing the most. They’ve always marched to their own damn beat.
Kids and teenagers run around like it’s recess. A gust of barbecue and spice rolls through, thick and nostalgic. My stomach growls. I remember family days here. Loud, messy, joyful. The food was always fire. Say what you want about bikers—they throw a damn good cookout.
Malikai and Sebastian exit first, both falling into position without a word. Sebastian offers his hand. I smirk and take it, letting him help me out. His face gives nothing away, but the moment my foot hits gravel, his eyes sweep the perimeter. Good. He knows the drill.
Malikai’s on the other side, standing tall, scanning. I give them both a slight, private smile—reserved only for my people. They know me. They’ve earned that.
