Page 132 of Seizing Control: Part Two

“That... and because you’re married,” he reminds her. As always, my chest swells with pride at his acknowledgment of my claim on Cherub. “Truth is, sweet thing, we need to keep our distance in public, full stop. Lazarus is no one to you—the cousin of your ex-fiancé, at best.” They exchange a wry look, then he opens the door. “Let your husband know when you want everyone gone... he can get rid of them, and I’ll take you to see the twins afterward.”

“Sure,” Cherub quips. “Fake shock. Act like the perfect wife. Ignore Lazarus. Pretend to be sad when the big man evicts our friends and family.”

“Got it in one, duchess.”

After rolling her eyes at me, my wife plasters a smile of her face, then steps into the kitchen. A roar of excitement erupts. Hands covering her mouth, she widens her eyes and feigns surprise. “Oh, my God. You guys...”

I marvel at the irony as I find myself caught between humour and envy. Sharing my wife, not only with Lazarus, but anyone in our orbit, is near the top of my list of dislikes. If I could monopolise her, I would.

Me. Cherub. Our kids. A secluded cabin. New identities. A fresh start.

When my son fusses over the noise everyone is making, I’m ripped back to the here and now. I tuck my forearm under his butt and cup the side of his head, my palm flatted over his ear, then press his other ear to my chest. Garrett sucks fast on his dummy, the little whimpers he makes breaking my heart, even though I know he’s okay and it’s only the temporary uproar upsetting him.

“Hush, little man.” Lazarus runs his knuckles over my son’s cheek. “Let Imma have her moment.”

Despite the week we’ve spent together, I continue to waver between approval and envy whenever I witness his bond with my son. It’s pure luck that Garrett has taken to me so quickly, considering he’s demonstrated multiple times in the last week that he’s picky as hell when it comes to people. There’s a simplicity in the connection he shares with Lazarus, an underlying trust that I haven’t had the time to establish.

Which is my fault.

It will always be my fault.

“They love her,” Lazarus remarks as we watch the Moscato & Monet club engulf our woman in a group hug. My fingers curl into a fist at the sight of my wife being embraced by person after person. I know she’d deny it, but it’s obvious my duchess is still hurting post-caesarean, and it drives me crazy not being able to take away her pain. Next to me, Lazarus seems to be battling the same inclination. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to create some boundaries.”

“Agree... they needa be gentle with her. It’s up to us to set limits—keep her safe.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Before we can discuss our next step, Cherub turns back to us.

She beckons me forward with a flick of her hand.

I’m closing the distance between us in the next instance.

My arm loops around her waist and I loom over her like a bodyguard. Passing by on her opposite side, Lazarus uses me as a shield. He pauses momentarily to cup her nape, his thumb brushing over the soft spot where Cherub’s skull and spine connect, then he moves away from her. Alone, acting as husband and wife—a family—for the first time in months, we immerse ourselves in the conversation with anyone who approaches. The M&M girls are ecstatic with the success of their surprise, wide smiles as they act like hostesses to take the pressure off their best friend.

As is her way when the club princesses are around, Nadia fades into the background. Garrett fists my shirt, content to suck his pacifier and observe the crowd from his dad’s arms. My club brothers come and go, everyone doing their part to ensure the safety of our families. Lockdown hasn’t been lifted since there is no reprieve from their quest for vengeance in sight. The Maddison’s constant incursions onto our turf continue, their desire to avenge Noah St. James’ death endures while the culprit remains unknown two weeks after his corpse was discovered.

The Shamrocks are the number one suspect.

My gut tells me the perpetrator is the man standing guard on the other side of the room.

The youngest St. James son was killed weeks earlier, around the time he originally went missing, and the curious timing of his body being found only consolidates my suspicions that Lazarus killed him at Gabriel’s behest. The Adjudicator had the corpse dumped for a reason. I haven’t worked out why, and I have half a dozen questions in need of answers, yet I leave them unspoken.

My motorcycle club is my business.

The Adjudicator’s dealings are Gabriel’s concern... even when his moves blowback on the Shamrocks. Still, it’s a problem that I need to address soon. The separation of the MC and the Trinity’s arbitration team is paramount. I was forced to join the guild as part of our alliance, but I won’t allow them to co-opt my club brothers as additional soldiers by involving us in their tactics without my permission.

My decision is consolidated as I watch the men I lead mill around my house. We’re bikers. Anarchists. Not the self-imposed elite. The Black Shamrocks MC are a faction of organised crime, an essential part of the underworld, rebels who live outside society’s constructs. It isn’t part of our ethos to prop up the three-hundred-year-old secret society that runs the world.

These men deserve the liberty they crave.

Family, friends, and freedom.

As they mill about in their cuts, checking on the kids, ensuring their old ladies are fed and have a fresh drink in their hands as soon as their glass empties, I make a mental note to reach out to Gabriel and reiterate our autonomy as soon as possible. We are independent. Allies when it’s needed. Antagonists when our goals diverge. Loyal to our brotherhood, not the Trinity.

It’s my job as president to ensure the Adjudicator understands this.

The Shamrocks are my priority.

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