Page 8 of Trick

I leave the room, shutting the doors behind me, my chest so tight, every breath hurts. Blood pumps in my ears and that need to kill feels as if it alights every synapse in my body.

My hands shaking, I retrieve my things from the box outside the room, and as I turn, I catch a flicker of movement a second before I’m shoved bodily against the wall behind me.

My back cracks as it hits the plasterwork, and the air is forced from my lungs. Instinct has me fighting back as a forearm is pressed against my throat.

Rage’s furious gaze locks onto mine, and I drop my arms to my sides.

“Fight me, you prick,” he growls in my face, but I shake my head. “Fuckin’ coward.”

I am, so I don’t disagree, but this shit between us needs to end.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I am sorry, Rage. I shouldn’t have laid hands on her, and there are no excuses I can make, but I promise you it’ll never happen again. Your woman is safe around me.”

His lips curl into a snarl as his arm presses harder against my throat. My fight response urges me to push him back so I can drag air fully into my lungs, but I don’t move. Rage didn’t earn that name without cause, and I don’t want to make this already inflamed situation any worse.

“Your promises don’t mean shit to me. You might’ve fooled everyone else, but I see you for what you are. I know I can’t do jack about you being back, not without riskin’ my place here. I just got to a good position, so I ain’t gonna fuck that up, but you stay the hell away from my old lady and from me. You got that?” He steps back, releasing his grasp on my throat, and the air floods my aching lungs.

I suck in a breath, trying to get oxygen flowing around my body again as my throat burns.

“I’m not your enemy.”

“Aren’t you? The only reason you’re still breathin’ is because Howler forbid me from slitting your fuckin’ throat, and unlike you, my patch and my oath mean something.”

I flinch. I would have rather he’d stabbed me than hit me with those words. But he’s right, which makes it worse. My oath and my patch hadn’t been in my mind when I took justice into my own hands.

Rage jabs a finger into my chest hard enough to bruise. “Stay away from Skye, or I’ll forget my promise to Prez and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

He walks away, and I sag back against the wall, my head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. Maybe there is no coming back from this. Maybe I’m just cooked. I can take all the beatdowns, all the punishments in the world, but unless my brothers trust and accept me, it doesn’t matter.

And that thought scares the fuck out of me.

CHAPTER 3

HEIDI

THREE WEEKS LATER…

The weeds keep coming back, no matter how many times I pull them. Their tendrils spread around the flowers planted in front of the grave, choking their growth and turning their leaves brown.

I could have stopped them from dying if I’d come sooner, but judging from the tangle of stems, no one else has visited Theo recently either.

That surprises me, considering how much my late husband was loved by the club. Those men idolised him. They even wear a memorial patch on their kuttes to remember him.

My phone rings for the third time in the last five minutes, and I scowl, frustrated at the constant interruption as ‘Bobby’ flashes on my screen.

Can he not take a hint?

Clearly, Bobby hasn’t got the message that I want to be left the fuck alone. I can’t even visit the grave of my deceased husband without being harangued by his fucking club.

I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on Bobby, though. He has no idea what he’s signed himself up for by joining the Sons. He’s a good kid, a transplant from London sent to swell our numbers after the Pioneers killed our last two prospects, but that goodness in him won’t last. It never does. And prospects have a shorter lifespan than patched brothers around here. I don’t want to know him because, eventually, his headstone will be somewhere in this cemetery too.

I silence my phone, slipping it back into my jacket pocket where it’s easier to ignore before I lean forward to grab another handful of thick stems. Tearing them out of the ground, I use so much force, it displaces the surrounding soil, but the gravesite is no longer hidden behind the weeds.

Sitting back on my heels, I stare at the black marble headstone. The gold engraved lettering catches the mid-morning sunlight as it peeks through a tiny break in the clouds, making it shimmer. It’s an expensive-looking memorial, with both a crow—his road name—and the Untamed Sons insignia etched beneath all the usual details.

Theodore Thorn. Loving Husband and Brother.

Those brothers were not his by blood, but they were his family. Club takes care of club.

---