Page 62 of Riot

My hand scrubs over the nape of my neck. “Yeah, he did. He’s going to talk to Rav about patching into Manchester, but I think at this point, he’d take any of the other chapters.”

The look on Mace’s face is one I can empathise with, because I’m pretty sure it mirrors my own.

“Ain’t right. Losing good men, good brothers, because of shit at the top is fuckin’ criminal.”

“If he is a good man,” I counter.

“You doubt him?”

I blow out a breath. “Honestly, I don’t know who the fuck to trust these days. The deeper we get into this shit, the more confused I am. We have to tread carefully, but fuck, it killed me to not tell him that things aren’t gonna to stay like this.”

His brow arches. “You didn’t say a word?”

I shake my head. “Believe me, I wanted to, but trust has to be earned. For all I know, he could be spying for Crank.”

“You think that’s what he’s doing?”

How the hell do I answer that?The nature of what we do makes it vital for us to be able to lie at times, and as close as I was to Dash, our club ain’t the same as it was before the Pioneers declared war on us. I don’t know if Dash is the same guy who came up with me, and I ain’t risking everything we’ve worked for out of some sense of loyalty I had to him in the past.

I shift my shoulders. “I don’t know, and that’s the problem. Outside of you and Nicky, there ain’t a single person in the clubhouse that I trust. He’ll go to Rav, and he can be the one to decide whether to tell him.”

“I’ll let Nicky know. Are you heading back out?” Mace asks.

I shove my hands into my pockets. There’s no way I’m leaving before I see my girl. “I got a bit of time to burn.”

“Good. Maybe you can talk some fuckin’ sense into Toby.”

I snort, following him towards the living room, but as much as I love the kid, it ain’t him I want to see.

It’s the beautiful woman I’m falling in love with.

TWELVE

IVY

I feelRiot’s presence before I look up from my daughter. I’m always aware of where he is. It’s like our bodies are magnetised to each other.

Even though I only saw him this morning, I can’t help but get lost in how mouth-wateringly good he looks.

His kutte is pulled over a dark green button-down shirt that’s rolled up his forearms, and his dark hair is a little messy, no doubt from his helmet.

But as I take him in—really take him in—my stomach sinks. There’s no sign of his dimple or cocky smile. Nor that swagger that makes my stomach flutter.

He looks tired and upset.

And that small burst of static electricity that sizzled through me is doused.

Is he okay?

The question sits on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to draw attention to his mood.

As if he knows I’m studying him, he lifts his lids, and I forget everything anyway when his gaze locks on mine. That heated stare pins me to the couch like one of those pretty butterflies speared to a piece of card.

Then his gaze softens as he scans me and Seren.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I repeat.

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