Page 71 of True Bastard
I sighed, rubbing my temples. “The entire club is composed of former military. Which means they are all deadly in their own right. Definitely more alcohol and food than whores. The president has an old lady, and if the rumors about her are true, stay the fuck away from her. She will gut you before you blink. And watch out for the enforcers, Trash and Agony. Those two are lethal. How many are they bringing?”
“The whole club,” Morpheus informed, grinning from ear to ear.
“The president recently adopted a young boy. So, he is going to need a room away from the gathering. Maybe bring in Helen and Anna Joy. Inferno, you can stash Karter with them. Have a few of the brothers guarding the door because you can be damn sure Luc will have his own men watching his son.”
“What else?” Cobalt asked, jotting down what I was saying.
“Who’s doing the cooking?”
When the brothers all shifted in their seats and stayed silent, I groaned. “Please tell me that someone here knows how to fucking cook?”
“We prefer fucking to cooking, Kitten.” Carver chuckled.
“Yeah, well, fucking won’t fill bellies.”
“Oh, it does, just not in the way you’re thinking.” Heretic laughed, high-fiving Garrote as the rest of the brothers roared with laughter.
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head, refusing to comment on that. “I’ll reach out to Alice and see if she’d like to help out. She’s the only one I know who can cook for a large gathering.”
“Oh, Cerberus is going to love that.” Wanderer roared with laughter.
“Cerberus can keep his dick in his pants. If I ask Alice to help out, I want her treated as an old lady. Hands off. I mean it, or you fuckers can figure this shit out yourselves,” I said firmly, standing my ground. I didn’t know what the hell was going on between Cerberus and the local diner owner, but I liked Alice, and I refused to let these bastards intimidate her.
My words hung in the air, a challenge thrown into the wolf’s den. The brothers shifted, their usual boisterous energy momentarily quelled by my unexpected assertiveness. Morpheus, ever the calculating force, observed me with an unreadable gaze, a hint of something akin to grudging respect flickering in his obsidian eyes. He knew I was right; the Brotherhood’s hospitality often leaned towards brute force overfinesse, and feeding an entire club like Disturbed would require more than just... willing hands.
“Alice... she’s a good woman, Morpheus,” I continued, my voice firm, defying the tremble that threatened to betray me. “She deserves to be treated with respect, not like some... plaything for the club’s drunken appetites. If she helps, she’s treated as an old lady, and that means hands off. Is that understood?”
I scanned their faces, daring anyone to object. Vortex, surprisingly, offered a nod, a silent acknowledgment of my point, though Wanderer’s booming laughter signaled a different kind of understanding. The threat hung in the air, unspoken but potent: I would not tolerate disrespect towards Alice, and if they couldn’t manage it, they could figure out their own damn catering.
“Fine,” Morpheus conceded, a rare note of pragmatism in his gravelly voice. “Alice gets treated as an old lady. And, Kitten”—he fixed his gaze on me, the predator in him momentarily subdued by a flicker of something else—“you’re on hostess duty. You make sure our guests are entertained, and you make damn sure they don’t start any shit. You understand?”
The weight of his expectations settled upon me, a heavy cloak I was learning to wear, whether I liked it or not.
Chapter Forty-One
Firestride
I knew something was wrong the second I cut my engine in front of the clubhouse. My engine’s dying cough felt like a premonition, a whisper of the dread that was already coiling in my gut.
Looking at Cerberus, the man shrugged as he, Zephyr, and I got off our bikes. But his usual swagger was gone, replaced by a tension that radiated off him like heat from asphalt. Instead of the loud ruckus and booming music that generally welcomed us home, a deafening silence greeted us tonight. It was an unnatural quiet, as if the very walls of the clubhouse held their breath, waiting for us to enter, waiting for a judgment.
Gathering everything out of my saddlebag felt like I was preparing for my own funeral. Each strap I tightened, each buckle I clicked, echoed the growing unease in my chest. I wanted to turn back, to pretend I hadn’t seen the stillness, but my feet were already moving, pulling me towards the entrance. Cerberus and Zephyr, their faces grim masks, followed close behind, their usual camaraderie replaced by a shared, unspoken fear.
Stepping inside, I came to a complete, jarring halt, my heart leaping into my throat. The air was thick and heavy, pressing down on me. Morpheus sat on his throne on the dais, a dark king in his domain; my woman, Kyllian, beside him. Her facewas an impenetrable mask, a terrifying blankness that I couldn’t decipher.
Was she scared? Resigned? Or worse, complicit?
The club brothers all stood before them, their arms crossed over their chests, their gazes fixed, expectant. This wasn’t a welcome; it was an interrogation. Morpheus’ greeting, “Welcome home, brothers,” dripped with a venom that belied the words. It was a mockery.
He slowly stood, his height amplified by the tense silence, and my gaze was drawn to Kyllian. She barely shook her head, a minuscule movement that spoke volumes, a plea or a warning, I couldn’t tell. As Morpheus descended the dais, the brothers parted like the Red Sea, creating a path for him that felt like a gauntlet.
My breath hitched.
I knew this path.
Judgment Day had arrived.
“How did the debt collections go?” Morpheus asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floor. He didn’t look at me; his eyes were fixed on something—or someone—behind me.
