Page 25 of True Bastard
“No,” I admitted, my word a harsh rasp in the quiet night. “She’s not.”
“Then what is she?”
“Mine.”
That one word hung between us, heavy and undeniable.
Kyllian Ward was no longer a debt to be collected; she was mine. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. It was a truth I could no longer deny, no matter how much I tried to bury it under whiskey and meaningless sex. The fire in her eyes, the defiance that burned so brightly, had ignited a fire in me, a dangerous blaze I couldn’t control.
I was a Bastard, a man carved from the same harsh granite as this unforgiving landscape. Loyalty and survival were the only currencies I knew. But Kyllian, my kitten with claws, had somehow clawed her way past the granite, into the raw, untamed heart of me. She was trouble, pure and simple, a complication I couldn’t afford, not with the Brotherhood’s code etched into my very bones. But the thought of her, vulnerable and defiant, a pawn in a game she never asked to play, ignited something fierce and protective within me.
Cerberus whistled into the night, a low, knowing sound that seemed to acknowledge the shift. “Brotherhood’s never had an old lady before. Not sure how the brothers will handle it.” He took another drag from his cigarette, his gaze fixed on the distant Black Hills, a silent acknowledgment of the precarious balance I was about to disrupt.
“They can get on board, or they can deal with me. Not walking away from her.”
“She’s still married.”
“Not for long,” I growled as we both heard a bike turn the corner, then roll to a stop at the curb.
JessupmotherfuckingWinston.
“About fucking time,” Cerberus groaned, flicking his cigarette on the ground. “My ass was going numb waiting for that fucker. Let’s grab the son of a bitch and get the hell out of here. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
Chapter Sixteen
Keely
Across town that same night, at the Prancing Pussycat...
“I don’t give a flying fuck, Cade!”
The words ripped from my throat, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the stale, coffee-scented air of the back room. My glare, a white-hot shard of pure fury, was aimed squarely at the smug, unyielding curve of his jaw. The cheap fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and flickered, mirroring the frantic thrumming beneath my skin, as heat coiled in my gut. “I am done. Another shift? Not a chance in hell. You want someone to pick up Kyllian’s slack? You find someone else, or I swear on the stale grease clinging to these damn walls, I’m walking out. And trust me, Cade, there are places out there that’ll spill coin like a goddamn fountain, places that pay so much more it’d make your teeth ache.”
“Don’t threaten me, Keely,” Cade snapped. “You owe me.”
“We fucked once,” I spat back, the memory of his lecherous touch making my skin crawl. “That doesn’t mean I owe you my soul, Cade. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to dance for your scummy clientele after the way you treated Kyllian.” I shuddered, the image of Kyllian’s bruised face flashing behind my eyes. If I had any guts, I’d be out that door, never looking back. But the thought of Kyllian alone, jobless and terrified, gnawed at me.
She was probably out there somewhere, lost and alone, trying to figure out what to do next.
Cade’s eyes narrowed, his face contorting into a sneer. “Kyllian’s problem wasn’t my problem. Bitch brought trouble to my club. You want to walk out, fine. But don’t come crawling back when you realize you can’t make rent without me.” He gestured dismissively toward the door. “Now get the fuck out of my office before I call security and have you thrown out myself.”
His threat was clear, and the knowledge that I was no better off than Kyllian, just a different kind of captive, settled in my gut like a cold stone. I stormed out of his office, the sting of his words echoing in my ears. My defiance felt like a hollow victory. As I pushed open the back door, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the club, I saw it.
I didn’t recognize the bike at first. Years had passed since I’d last heard that particular roar, that specific, throaty growl that vibrated through my bones and settled into the deepest part of my gut. But the silhouette, the way the biker sat astride the machine, shoulders broad against the night, was unmistakable.
It was my father’s bike, or at least it looked like it.
The polished chrome, the worn leather seat... a ghost from a life I’d fought tooth and nail to escape. And the rider... the rider was unfamiliar, but a visceral, sickening reminder of a past I’d worked damn hard to bury. A past steeped in violence, in the kind of decisions that stained my soul, and that left me hollow on the inside.
My gut twisted. This man, whoever he was, was a living embodiment of everything I swore I’d left behind. My first instinct, the one honed by years of self-preservation, was to vanish. To melt into the shadows, to pretend I hadn’t seen, hadn’t heard. But then, a colder, more insistent voice whispered, a voice that sounded eerily like him.
A wave of nausea washed over me.
My father.
He’d always said I was too soft, too unwilling to embrace the strength that ran in our veins. He’d said I was destined to fail, to be trampled by the world because I clung to my naïve notions of right and wrong.
And here on his roaring beast was proof.
