Page 117 of Lamb

When I should be revolted and fearful of Lamb’s psychotic nature, I felt … protected.

Unbeknownst to me, the absolute control that had once smothered me had become my shelter. Where I had been the last few embers of a dying fire, ready to let my final light fade, Lamb had become a pair of shielding hands that had protected me andnurtured me back to flame. I was far from burning on my own, but it was there, that little glow of hope.

The mystery was no longer who Lamb was or what he desired. Now it was me. Who I was. Who I could become.

Lamb was not Pandora’s box, after all.

I was.

Chapter Thirty

LAMB

“Why the fuck am I even here?” I growled, staring from one ugly face to the next.

“Wow, what a warm welcome.” Pretty rolled his eyes as he tugged off his helmet. His short, icy-blond hair fell into a messy shag around his chiseled, handsome face. Even helmet hair couldn’t ruin the boy’s good looks.

“Trust me,” Hunter grumbled, turning off his own engine. “If anyone has a right to skip, it’s me.”

“Will all of you quit your bitching?” Wolf growled, standing from his own bike, leather cut straining as he stretched his arms over his shoulders. He made a pained face, and the reminder that old age was inevitable flooded silently over us all. “I thought I brought men on this run, not bitches.”

“You’re right,” I sighed, righting my slouch across my bike’s handlebars. “I am a little bitch.” I’d been the first to arrive when I’d received the three a.m. wakeup call early this morning. Now the sun was cresting over the horizon, and the warmth of dawn bit back at the cold wintery winds. “So let me go home.”

Wolf’s gaze was colder than a grave. “Just because you’ve got someplace to stick your dick now, doesn’t mean you get a free pass out of club business.” Wolf turned away. His thick armsreached up to pull loose his long, salt and pepper locks before attempting to tame the wild beast into a ponytail at the back of his neck.

I frowned. Having annoyed Wolf daily over the last decade, something about his cutting tone made suspicion rise across the hairs on my neck. I sent a questioning look toward Hunter, unsurprised to see he mirrored my confusion.

“What am I missing?”

“You’ll find out,” Wolf chipped in. “Let’s go.”

Heavy boots beat down on the ground as Wolf marched toward the rundown diner in Redwood. He neither waited for me to dismount nor for anybody to follow. Fortunately, I was fast and fell into step behind my president, with Hunter coming up belatedly at the rear. Pretty made no motion to follow, planting himself next to our bikes, resting comfortably against his own. He seemed as if he was enjoying the morning sun, not securing our escape if something were to go awry.

An old bell rang as Wolf stepped onto the linoleum floor, announcing our arrival. I took cursive glances around the newly redecorated art-deco diner. Bullet holes had been plastered up nicely and covered with retro art pieces and black and white photographs, disguising any evidence of the shoot-up last year. I’d heard about it through some back channels, but while the Black Angels had little affiliation with our now ex-rivals, it was little more than some interesting breakfast gossip.

Hunter stiffened by my side, his face rigid and hands clamping into fists at his thighs. I wasn’t surprised. Not when my eyes landed on the president of the Hell’s Runners in the flesh.

Chains, otherwise known as Hunter’s surprise half-brother. He was a mirror image of Nobel, Hunter’s blood brother and our club brother, who’d died in a clash between Hell’s Runners and the Black Angels several years earlier. It had left a bloody smear on our past and chilled the hope of Hunter and Chains evergetting along. If it hadn’t been for Chains’ brown eyes instead of Nobel’s iconic green, I’d have thought my brother had walked straight out of the grave myself.

It was my first time seeing the man in the booth next to him, but with the constant rotation of personnel on the Runners’ side, it made sense. Just because I wasn’t interested in their happenings, didn’t mean I ignored them.

Wolf stopped at the edge of their table, offering his bear paw for Chains to shake. It was a stiff and reluctant exchange, but one of mutual understanding before my president sat.

I slid in next to him, and Hunter stood like one of the Easter Island heads by my side—stone-cold, expressionless, and as big as a mountain. It was a practical move for defense, and it sent a message. Especially when Chains’ own mirroring enforcer was dwarfed by Hunter’s six-foot-four ass.

Chains didn’t bat an eyelid at his blood brother’s attitude. Their relationship was still novel to them both, and Hunter had yet to make a clear move. He hadn’t pushed Chains away, but he didn’t invite him any closer either.

I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I were introduced to a hidden half-brother at thirty-six years of age. Then again, I wasn’t like most others, so I was doubtful my hypothetical choices would offer any valuable insight.

“Still no V.P.?” I offhandedly commented, giving Chains’ company a slow, lengthy look.

The kid at his side was wiry at best, probably hooked on a drug or two—eyes bloodshot, cheeks hollowed and pale. He jittered like a vibrator, physically straining to stay still. It’d take little effort to knock him off his feet.

I almost felt regretful having Hunter by my side; it was like turning up with the real Hulk to a kid’s superhero dress-up party.

Chains cast a brief glance beside him, a moment of recognition passing across his face as if he’d just remembered his attendance. He mentally cast him aside, refocusing on Wolf and ignoring my question altogether.

“Out with it,” Wolf growled, ignoring the steaming hot pot of coffee in the middle of the table. I reached over, poured myself a cup, and took a swig, the bitter acidic taste lingering on my tongue as it burned down my throat.

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