Page 87 of Thunder's Reckoning
“You better,” he said, lettin’ go but not softenin’. “Keep her safe. Keep yourself in check. And when the time comes for blood, we spill it together.”
Then he turned and walked off, boots echoing in the empty hall, leavin’ me standin’ there with my fists balled and my pulse poundin’.
Together.
But all I could think was—I wasn’t sure I could wait that long.
***
THE TRUCK RUMBLEDbeneath us, tires humming against old Carolina asphalt as the town gave way to fields and pine. Buildings fell behind, one by one, until all we had was sunlight slippin’ through the branches and the sound of the wind. The air smelled different out here, earthy, damp, wide open, unbothered by the weight of men and their sins.
Didn’t matter. Couldn’t shake the itch between my shoulders.
Sable sat close beside me, her hair pulled back loose, the soft shadows of the cab painting her face in a way that made her look carved out of something more fragile than flesh. Zara was curled up in the back with her bunny tucked tight, eyes fluttering like she was halfway between dreams. Malik had his chin propped on one fist, staring out the window like he was tracking ghosts in the trees.
We hadn’t said much since we left the clubhouse. She knew somethin’ was off. Hell, she always knew, could read the air the way she was taught to read scripture, waitin’ for the hidden message, the warning between the lines.
Her hand rested light on my thigh, just enough weight to remind me she was there, like she thought I’d up and run if she let go.
“You sure she’s okay with us coming out there like this?” she asked finally, voice barely above the hum of the engine.
I glanced over, caught her profile in the glow of the dash. “Momma? She’d be mad if I didn’t bring you.”
That earned me the smallest smile. Not a bright one—more like a weary flicker at the corner of her mouth, but it was somethin’.
The gravel popped beneath the tires as we turned up the long drive. White fence stretchin’ either side, big porch out front, blackberry bushes lined in rows at the edge of the yard. House hadn’t changed since I was a boy. Weathered and stubborn, standin’ tall against storms, just like the woman inside it.
The door flew open before I’d even cut the engine.
Momma stepped out, dish towel tossed over her shoulder, braid of silver hair gleamin’ in the sun. She stood square on that porch, feet bare, arms crossed, lookin’ down at us with the same no-bullshit gaze she’d given patched brothers and preachers alike.
“Well,” she said, squintin’ against the sun, “’bout time.”
For a beat, none of us moved. Maybe it was the quiet, or maybe it was the weight of what we were carryin’, the shadows of what we’d done, what we’d seen, what was still chasin’ our heels.
Momma didn’t wait.
She came down the steps like the ground belonged to her, apron tied around her waist, that towel swingin’ like a flag. Armscrossed tight, chin high. Woman never was afraid of much, and if she had been, she never showed it.
“Get them babies out that truck and into some air conditionin’ before I have a heatstroke just lookin’ at y’all,” she barked, but her eyes softened the second they landed on Zara’s sleepy face.
Sable slid out first, hair tumblin’ loose from the drive, her hand reachin’ back to help Zara and Malik climb down. Zara clung to her bunny, blinkin’ blearily. Malik kept close, his shoulders tense, eyes on the yard like he expected monsters to come lurchin’ out from the treeline.
I rounded the front to grab our bags, but Momma was already there, pluckin’ one off my shoulder like I was twelve again.
“Let me take this,” she muttered, headin’ for the porch. “Come on now.”
I let out a low breath, watchin’ her usher Sable and the kids up the steps like she’d been expectin’ them all her life.
The house smelled the same the second we crossed the threshold, old wood, lemon cleaner, and somethin’ sweet bakin’. Maybe cornbread. Maybe peach cobbler. Hell, maybe both. That smell sank right down into my bones.
I watched Sable’s shoulders ease the moment she stepped inside. She looked around like the walls themselves felt different, solid, safe, untouched by the kind of rot that bleeds from evil. Malik kicked off his boots by the door like he’d been taught to, and Zara trailed close behind, bunny pressed to her chest, nose twitchin’ as if she was tryin’ to memorize the smell.
“I made up the bedrooms,” Momma called over her shoulder, already headin’ for the kitchen. “Malik and Zara get the blue room. Sable, you’re in the quilt room. And you—” she turned, jabbin’ a finger at me, “you can sleep in your old room.”
That earned a laugh from Sable. Small, but real. It loosened the tight look around her eyes.
I set the bags down in the hall and caught her gaze.
