Page 38 of Saint's Sinner

“And on that note,” Saint muttered as he sidestepped along the wall to avoid a collision, shaking his head at their exuberance. It was good seeing his nephew happy with his Doms and all, but he could do without an eyeful of them in action.

No, what he wanted was to make it perfectly clear to his brat that nothing Sinn said or did was going to get Saint to stop worrying about him, but what hewaswilling to do was work on not stifling Sinn’s enthusiasm or smothering him with well-meaning concern.

Like he’d figured, Sinn was still at the table in the shop listening to the manual, the scowl on his face evidence that he was still fuming.

“I fucked up,” Saint announced once he’d alerted Sinn to his presence and waited for him to pause the book. “I’m sorry. You were right to call me on it.”

Sinn nodded, a slow smile creasing his face. “Thank you for that and for not offering excuses. I know me getting snatched up still has you rattled and feeling overly protective, it rattled me too, not because I was worried for me, but ‘cause I knew neither you nor Night would stop looking. I didn’t want either of you to wind up six feet under or behind bars ‘cause of me but we need to put that behind us now and move forward, starting with you proving to me just how sorry you are.

Damn was he fierce. Saint was still trying to pick his jaw up off the ground when Sinn surged out of the chair and seized his arm.

“Let’s go,” Sinn growled as he headed for the door, tugging an eager and aroused Saint along behind him.

Chapter 14

(Night)

A Weathered Place of Hate

For the longest time, Night stood gazing down into his aunt’s coffin, watching for breathing or the barest twitch, heart hammering harder with every moment that passed. Even in death she was sneering, that pinched frown on her pale, waxy face was as terrifying as when they were children and forced to spend long summer weeks in her presence. Tufts of cotton dotted the fields beyond the cemetery, clinging to broken pods from the last harvest. Occasionally the wind tore one free and sent it dancing over headstones in a display that might have been beautiful, if every memory of the woman they were putting into the ground wasn’t an ugly one.

His eyes sought out the twisted mass of burn scars running down his cousin Bobby’s neck and halfway up the back of his head from the grits she’d thrown on him when he was a child. Of course, she’d claimed he’d run underfoot and caused the accident and his grandfather had believed his daughter’s words over those of the grandson he’d never wished to be responsible for.

An unwanted burden, like Night, Haze and several of their other cousins who’d been taken in and raised by family memberswhen their parents had wound up jailed or abandoning them to go on the run. Forget that the whole fucked up robbery plan had been his grandfather’s in the first place, he’d still resented having to feed and clothe a bunch of useless nuisances…at least until he’d devised a way to make it extremely profitable for him.

The rules were simple enough. Never pull a heist in their town. Never pull one in the light of day. Never carry identification. Never give your real name. And never, ever lead them back home, no matter how far out of the way you had to go to evade them.

There were backroads they’d come to know better than their own bedrooms. Gullies, deer paths, which creek beds would be dry during what times of year so they could walk on the rocks without leaving tracks. They’d used dirt bikes as frequently as they’d driven cars. Risking broken bones and jail sentences to stay on what little of a good side their grandfather had.

As for the witch, she didn’t have one, or at least, none that they’d ever found. Sharp tongued, cold, and borderline sadistic, he remembered the way she’d laugh when one of them was crying, smack them across the face and belittle them, telling them to toughen up or suffer the consequences.

They hadn’t, not really. Some of them buried it better than most, others got damned good at faking it until she was certain she’d stripped them of all consciousness and caring. One, she’d truly been successful with.

Night avoided the intense gaze of his oldest brother’s cold gray eyes. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, cigarette cherry bright as he took a drag. He looked like all the photos Night had ever seen of their grandfather in his younger years, right down to the belligerent frown and the hate-filled glower.

It was eerie, looking from Creed to their grandfather, who stood just as straight back and imposing as ever, despite everylong black hair on his head having turned a brilliantly shocking white. Almost as if he could sense Night staring at him, he turned his head, shrewd gaze peering into Night’s eyes, leaving him trapped and unable to look away. No, that wasn’t true. He knew better than to look away, that it would be seen as a sign of weakness, something he’d have to answer for before he made it out of here.

He didn’t blink, he barely breathed, and forget the long, relieved exhale he wanted to let out when his grandfather looked away, he knew Creed was still watching him, staring at his black leather kutte and the patches on it like they were a puzzle he needed to solve.

He shouldn’t have asked if he could keep the colors on. What he should have done was begged one of his club brothers to come with him, only, the moment he thought the words, two faces came to mind: Saint’s and Sinn’s. A stiff wind swirled the nearby leaves into a tornado of motion and raised goosebumps along his arms as Saint’s words ran through his head.

Get back here safe and in one piece so we can make this official. All of it, understood?

It was a promise, one he held tight to even as he fought to keep thoughts of the men whose lives he wanted to be a permanent part of, from distracting him so much he got called out over it. Saint’s words rolled through his mind again, and he hoped they were able to carry him through the rest of his day. The full length of the state, from opposite corners even, sat between him and the Joker’s clubhouse. It might as well have been an eternity as his grandfather threw the first handful of dirt on the coffin like he was aggravated with the whole affair.

He probably was. Having to plan all this, summon everyone home, and pay the undertaker’s bill no doubt had the old bastard in the foulest of moods, which was one of the other reasons Night hadn’t asked anyone to make the trip with him. The thirdwent back to the rules he’d grown up with. He’d learned the first time he’d tried to invite a friend over to play that never lead anyone back here also meant never bring anyone home who wasn’t already a member of their family.

Not coming hadn’t been an option either. He’d been honest when he’d said he needed to see for himself that she was worm food, but he’d left out the part about fearing the repercussions if he failed to show up. How to explain that he could face down a knife wielding bastard with little concern for the outcome but was scared shitless of a wizened old man with a limp?

Maybe it was because it was harder to slip the mask of arrogance and indifference back on now that he’d discovered what a true family was, and how he didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t with them. He could ask questions, he could be curious and not mocked for not knowing, and he could be silent, and no one would press him into conversation just so they could wind him up and get him to lose his temper.

Head games. His family was infamous for them. Which meant he’d better get his shit in order before they rode back to the house, because that was where he’d really have to watch himself and the answers he gave to whatever questions they threw at him.

Each handful of dirt seemed to hit harder than the one before, until it sounded like they were hurling stones at the coffin. Then it was his turn, and he took one last look, just to be certain she wasn’t going to rise up like a harpy and take to the sky on a three headed broom. Night let the dirt slip from his fingers as he turned away, heading for the god damned limousine his grandfather had insisted they all ride in. He hated leaving his baby back at the house, guts tied in a knot of cold anxiousness at the thought that it wouldn’t be there when he got back.

Then what?

Could he even go back to the Jokers without his ride, and even if they did accept him, would it cost him his prospects rocker?

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