Page 1 of Seizing Control: Part Two

PROLOGUE

LILY

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Aged: Nineteen

“He’s busy wit’ a couple’a cut sluts.” My cousin steps out from behind the bar to halt my passage when I enter through the double doors in a rush. Since I expected as much, I raise my hand to acknowledge his caution, but keep walking through the main building toward the sleeping quarters with my gaze averted. The damage marring my boyfriend’s face when he arrived home an hour ago was all warning I needed over Slash’s state-of-mind, but my breath still hitches when Toker shouts after me, “It’s bad, Cherub... real bad. Prepare yourself.”

When I drop out sight, the hush that dawned at my unwanted intrusion of club night ends and the party returns to its original level. The masculine outrage at a female intruding on their night would normally make me smile. Tonight, though, I’m too worried Slash to find amusement in the club brothers protectiveness of their weekly debauchery. In the hallway that connects the main building to the various additions made over the club’s forty-plus years in existence, I lift my gaze from the floor to take in the wall of remembrance.

Photo after photo of fallen brothers.

Scanning them drives home the implication of my cousin’s warning.

For the past six anniversaries, Slash’s mourning has been bad.

If a seasoned biker, a man of violence like Toker, believes that this year is “real bad”, I can’t help but worry that we’ve finally reached rock bottom. The end of the line was close last anniversary when he visited me as I lay in my hospital bed post-surgery to make a speech that sounded suspiciously like goodbye. Although, I alerted Zeke to my worries, I was never made privy to the full details of their confrontation.

But I’m not an idiot.

My mind has been to dark places. Places I imagine Slash has initiate knowledge of at this point. Because of this, I’m aware that there’s always a possibility that the big man won’t come back from one of his annual breakdowns in one piece—or at all. The blame he places on himself for his son’s death may only rear its head once a year, but the two weeks he allows himself to lose control and truly feel are fraught with risk. His ongoing belief that he’s not a good man is a ridiculous notion to me considering Carter Hudson is one of the best people I know. I try my hardest to make him see himself how his friends and family perceive him. It’s a losing proposition and never ends well.

Dealing with hard-headed men who prefer to burn alive than ask for help rarely does.

Slash’s grief almost won once before—seven years ago when his son was murdered. As minimal as my actions felt at the time, I know I played a part in him regaining some hope for his future. Between the Shamrocks, the Hudson family, and the close-knit bond of our circle of friends, the anniversary has always been approached with love, kid gloves, and stern words. We’ve worked together to keep our friend from imploding completely. Over the years, I’ve helped as much as I can, but this time, I’m struggling through my own trauma.

Which feels like a never-ending process...

I should be getting better, however, my life is a series of two steps forward and one step backward. A few weeks ago, my attacker was imprisoned for almost six years. Our local media lost interest in me when he was unable to whip them into a frenzy. The culmination of the legal process and the disappearance of inaccurate articles and online inuendo brought some closure for me. Only it’s not enough to stop the voices in my head and the crawling under my skin from winning the war I fight to heal my damage. I live each day with the spectre of Alexander Kingsley hanging over me in the same way Slash exists with the loss of his son haunting him.

We share an understanding of life’s cruelty that not many other people possess.

Our survival is built on a throne of quicksand that’s powered by lies.

Healing is slow.

Trauma reigns supreme.

Backslides are easily triggered.

Belief in the goodness of others is hard to regain.

On cue, the cuts I made to my inner thighs and low on my belly throb with shame. I halt my journey down the corridor when my legs turn to jelly, and I’m forced to acknowledge the turmoil I’m attempting to flee. As I lean against the wall, my skin turns clammy. Trembling ripples through me. My head is a mess. The agony in my soul rages like an inferno. I’m too broken. Too damaged. Too filthy. I want to escape Alex’s taunting more than I want to prove to Zeke that I’m as strong as he thinks I am.

My fears for Slash’s safety are genuine, but part of my reason for running out on my old man when he burst into our house hours earlier than expected was to avoid the repercussions of the scene he disrupted. His black eye and a split lip, a relic from yet another fight with Slash during his annual mourning process, made my crime even harder for him to bear. Zeke came to me for support, and I made a mockery of his trust in me.

It was the worst thing for Zeke to walk in on.

A razor. Our ensuite bathroom. Fresh cuts. My blood. Pleas and apologies.

He was furious.

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