Page 129 of Seizing Control: Part One

This morning, I woke alone in my old bed at my parents’ house. I got dressed in silence—regretting my desertion of my duchess with every silent second that passed. When I entered the garage, my Harley stood pride of place. Washed and polished, the glistening called my name in a way it hasn’t in weeks.

I rode to the home I share with my wife with tension radiating through my temples.

My heart is broken, yet it’s my soul that hurts the most.

I don’t know who I am without Venom.

“Slash,” my dad greets me. He’s leaning against the breakfast counter, gripping a cup of coffee in his right hand while my mumma fusses over him. “’Bout time you showed your face.”

This is the first time I’ve seen anyone but my mumma since Toker carried me out of the hotel. Sobering up hurt. Licking my wounds required peace. I couldn’t face the rest of my family while I was still struggling to make sense of my decision to leave my cut behind. Rationally, I know that I’ve stepped down as president, yet I still feel like it’s my duty to lead them through his.

If not Venom, then it must be me.

That’s the way it’s always been.

He’s the chosen one.

I’m his second.

The lieutenant to his captain.

“Dad. Mumma.” I greet my parents. Pretending I’m oblivious to the silence that has dawned in the wake of my arrival, I head for the coffeepot and pour myself a mug. As I scan the faces for the people I’m looking for, my heart flips in my chest. “Where’s Cherub? The boys? Hunt?”

“They’re already at the funeral home,” Mumma tells me. She flushes under my intense scrutiny, unable to meet my eyes as she only gives me half the story. Her expression fills with sympathy when we accidentally lock gazes. “We’re about to meet them there for the first part of the service.”

“Toker agreed to show Venom’s body to your wife.” Dad isn’t as reticent to upset me as my mother. He stalks over to me and shoves me in the chest. “That should be your role—yet another one you’ve abandoned to fuck off and hide away from things like a coward.”

My father dismisses me with a sneer, then he beckons the remaining club brothers to follow him. The vice around my chest tightens to the point of breathlessness as, one by one, they traipse past me without a word. Not one of my club brothers acknowledges me. They act like I’m a ghost. A non-entity. It hurts more than it should, considering it was my choice to abandon my cut.

I try my hardest to stop them from seeing the effect they’re having on me.

Alone with the old ladies and kids, I blow out a jagged breath.

Lifting my gaze from my coffee mug to my mother’s face, I discover she’s looking at me. I try to smile at her. It doesn’t come. My lips refuse to cooperate when I see the twin trails of tears streaming down her cheeks. Instead, my eyes water as well and the tightness in my chest becomes too much to bear.

She opens her arms wide.

I put down my coffee and step into her embrace.

The moment her arms close around me, the liquid in my eyes spills over.

Her hug is soft. Mine is not. My arms have a mind of their own, pulling her closer to me and holding her tight. Her trembling shoulders remind me that I should be gentle with her, but I can’t make myself let her go. I drop my face into the crook of my mother’s neck and let the tears that have been almost three weeks coming dampen her shoulder.

This isn’t where I planned on letting the knowledge that Venom’s gone fully hit me.

I guess you don’t get a choice in it.

Grief takes out your knees when on its own timeline.

Total silence fills the house except for our sniffling. I’m trying to talk myself into letting her go when first one pair of arms surrounds us, followed by another, and then another. I know that it’s the old ladies—Delia and the older women. But, when it continues, little arms closing around my legs, a pat or two landing on my shoulders as some of them come and go, I lose track of who the arms belong to.

Honestly, it feels like every remaining member of the club has joined us in our grief.

Slowly, the group hug ends as each person peels off to travel to the funeral home where Zeke awaits his final send-off.

Until it’s just me and Mumma holding each other again.

“Mo ionmhas, we need to leave,” my mother urges when I show no inclination to let her go. “The Shamrocks won’t wait for you—not when they haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

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