The hypocrisy of it all sickened me.
I preached about strength, about standing firm, yet here I was, contemplating the ultimate act of weakness.
Getting to my feet, my legs felt heavy, as if I were wading through mud. I headed for the door. My desire to breathe fresh air, to see Diana’s innocent face, overrode my internal debate.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Montana’s voice ripped through the quiet, sharp and accusatory.
“To see my wife,” I managed, my words barely discernible. I reached the door, my hand hovering over the knob, already picturing the relief of stepping away when it was flung open, and there stood Malice, covered in blood from head to toe.
The relief I’d anticipated evaporated, replaced by a chilling dread.
My stomach lurched. This wasn’t the escape I’d planned.
The scrape of chairs against the floor was a jarring sound, amplifying the gasp that tore from Montana’s throat. “Malice?”
Malice’s gaze, glacial and disturbingly vacant, swept the room, finally locking onto mine. My world tilted as he lunged, his grip like iron on my shirt, slamming me against the unforgiving wall. “This is your fault.”
A surge of adrenaline, hot and disorienting, flooded me.
“WHOA!” Montana’s shout was a distant echo as my club brothers surged forward, a wall of concern and loyalty, trying to pry Malice off me. But beneath the physical assault, a deeper, more insidious conflict began to brew within me. I saw death in his eyes, a stark, terrifying reality, and a wave of regret washed over me—not for any specific action, for I genuinely didn’t know what I’d done, but for the sheer capacity I had to inspire such fury. I silently vowed never again to be the cause of this terror, even if it meant stifling a part of myself that craved... something I couldn’t quite name.
“Malice, use your words, big guy,” Torment said, his voice a low rumble as he stepped between us, placing himself squarely in the path of Malice’s wrath. “Where is Silver?”
A guttural growl escaped Malice. “At the hospital.”
“Is she hurt?” Mercy’s voice was laced with a fear that mirrored my own, a shared vulnerability I usually pushed down, a strength I relied on.
Malice’s eyes narrowed, burning into mine. “No.”
“Then whose fucking blood do you have all over you?” Fury demanded, his tone a tight wire of suspicion.
Malice’s gaze, unwavering, met mine. The words that followed were a chillingly calm declaration, a death knell to my already fractured peace. “Sinclair’s. That fucking cunt gutted him and left him for dead because he helped you!”
The blood drained from my face, leaving a hollow ache where my heart used to be. Malice’s venomous words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the fragile peace I’d found. His face contorted in a mask of cold fury, his clothes drenched in Sinclair’s blood—the sight was a chilling reminder that even with Diana back, this war was far from over.
Malice blamed me, and I knew why. Sinclair had taken the hit for me, for the secret of Diana’s location, and now he was paying the price. The relief of finding my wife was quickly being overshadowed by the grim reality of the damage done, the debts that needed to be paid, and the enemies who were always waiting in the wings.
“Sinclair?” I managed to rasp out, the word catching in my throat.
Malice’s eyes, usually so empty, now blazed with a primal rage. He was the embodiment of vengeance, and I’d just handed him a reason to unleash it all. Montana moved to intervene, but Malice’s grip on me tightened, his knuckles white against my shirt. The weight of my choices, the domino effect of my past, was crashing down with brutal force.
Every decision, every secret, had a price, and it seemed I was finally going to pay it all.
“He helped you,” Malice stated, his voice a low growl that vibrated through my bones. “He knew. And they found out.”
Malice’s implication was clear: Sinclair was in critical condition because of me. The joy of reunion had soured, replaced by a crushing guilt. Diana was safe, yes, but at what cost? Sinclair’s sacrifice was a stark reminder of the tangled web we were all caught in, a web woven with loyalty, betrayal, and the ever-present threat of violence.
“Fury,” Montana snapped. “Get your ass over to the hospital and see what you can find out. Payne, go with him. Bane, you, Shame and Torment are with Diana. The rest of you, lock down this clubhouse. I need to make a call.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sinclair
I was tired.
Tired of everything. I just wanted it all to end. For years, I’d played the game. Gathered every bit of information I could get my hands on, watched all the players, and waited patiently in the wings for the day to come when I would unleash the truth on the world.
Now, I was second-guessing myself.