Page 134 of Seizing Control: Part One

“You’re following the hearse,” Uncle Duke tells me. He scans the line of bikes, nodding to himself as he takes in the formation. “Slash and Toker will lead the pack, Wyatt and Meeyal will ride shotgun, and act as sweepers with the Blackards… I want you and Everett to make up the first row after the hearse, then we’ll have everyone else arranged by hierarchy.” As the Shamrocks road captain, it is his role to make these kinds of calls, but it still rankles as another decision is taken away from me. I temper my annoyance when my uncle gently squeezes my shoulder. “Proud of you, Cherub. You’re keepin’ your chin up, makin’ him even prouder of you that he already was.”

The ache in my arm recedes into nothingness.

The pain in my chest takes precedence.

I grip the helmet tight, bracing my legs to stabilise the Harley as a wave of dizziness hits. Heart beating too fast, deafening me, I vibrate with the need to run. Hot on its heels is my mind’s demand for blood. Goosebumps break out over my skin, a wave of ice rippling through me. It’s quickly superseded by the blazing heat that floods me.

Hot and cold.

Two paradoxical reactions.

A physical manifestation of my mental turmoil.

“Let’s roll out.” Blood fills my mouth when I reopen the wound on the inside of my cheek. I savour the metallic tang and the satisfying pain. It steadies me a little, although Uncle Duke’s voice remains garbled as he says, “We have a fallen brother to honour.”

On autopilot, I ride behind the glass dome that covers the box containing my first love’s body with my middle brother at my side. The roar from the Harleys that surround me is overwhelming. In a good way. It’s comforting to know that we’re enclosed by people who’d die for us. Especially when we turn onto the slipway at the entrance to the cemetery and find it lined with cop cars.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid,” Everett shouts at me as we’re forced to stop.

He is handling his Harley as well as can be expected considering he hasn’t ridden since he was taken hostage and tortured. My brother is as stubborn as it comes, so I check him over to make sure he’s okay before I fix my attention on Slash.

At the head of the pack, wearing his cut for the first time after it spent weeks hanging from a chair in my room, he is our leader. That makes him target numero uno if the corrupt police attempting to waylay us try anything. I tamp down on the anxiety that coils tight in my stomach, doing my best to ignore the dread that is nipping at the edges of my consciousness.

Hades shot Joseph Kingsley.

My father killed Zeke.

Under outlaw rules, we should be equal.

So, why do we have a welcoming party waiting for us?

Especially after the cops let us go earlier without an issue.

As I run my gaze over the crowd, picking out all the main players in the Maddison clan as they flaunt their relationship with the corrupt authorities in Perth, the numbness recedes.

I spy Hugh St. James among the faces.

He’s smug as hell.

Standing next to a familiar red-haired woman.

I can’t believe my eyes as I take in the sight of Hugh and his brother, Jack, sandwiching the bitch who used my miscarriage to ingratiate herself with the Shamrocks. She pretended to be my friend. Used my trauma against me. Tried to kill Slash. Tampered with my contraceptive. Pregnant or not with Slash’s child, Bebe Du Bois has picked the wrong day to show her face.

I’m hanging on by a thread.

A fine strand of sanity that just snapped.

“Anna!” Everett shouts my name. “Don’t you dare…”

“Shut up,” I retort as I kick down the stand and tilt the still-rumbling machine onto it. “I’m fuckin’ over this shit.”

Stalking toward the bitch that I have a bone to pick with, I yank my cross-body bag from my back to my front. I unzip the top and pull free my handgun. It was an eighteenth birthday present from Toker, a weapon that has saved my life more than once. I feel someone come to stand behind me as Hugh and Jack widen their stances in protection of Bebe when I stop in front of her.

One lungful of a familiar cologne alerts me that it’s my soon-to-be-ex-husband.

Wonderful.

Not.

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