Page 103 of Rook

There was a commotion in the other room.

Before I could figure out what was going on, though, the door burst open.

And there he was.

Looking like some kind of avenging angel, snarling at Randy.

“What are you talking about?” Randy asked.

Typical.

He hadn’t even noticed the rings.

He’d never been a particularly observant guy.

“Yeah. Engagement. Wedding. Got the papers to go with it. So if you don’t get your hands off my motherfucking woman—”

“You’re not the one barking orders here, asshole,” Randy snapped.

He’d never been good at being challenged. I guess that was what made him a rather fearsome president—his swift and ruthless punishment of anyone who questioned or pushed back against him.

“Get the gunoffmy wife’s head.”

Maybe it was the wrong time to feel a little cartwheel in my chest, but there was no reasoning with unstoppable forces like affection… and love.

“Fuck you.”

“Tess, babe,” Rook said instead, giving me a tight smile. “You okay?”

“Ready to come home,” I said, starting to nod my head, but the press of the gun muzzle had me stilling.

“You’re going back with me. You’re mine.”

“She’s not yours anymore,” Rook said. “That’smyold lady. And you’re gonna get your hands off of her, or I’m gonna tell my club to rip your men apart, limb by fucking limb.”

I could feel the change in Randy, the way he jolted at Rook’s words.

“Old lady,” Randy repeated. He’d never been a bright guy. And he almost always needed to think things through aloud. “Club,” he went on.

He was probably looking at Rook, confused by his lack of a cut. After all, the Iron Wolves ate, slept, and fucked in their cuts. The only time Randy was without his was when he showered.

And Rook almost never had his on, thanks to his parole and Nancy’s constant and unexpected drop-ins. Even if Randy and the guys had seen another club in town, there’d be no reason for him to assume Rook was affiliated.

“Yeah. Club.”

“Need a hand in here?” Slash asked, walking into the bedroom, looking every bit the scary, badass, scarred-faced, tattooed biker president. And unlike Rook, Slash was wearing his cut.

“This place is a shithole,” Slash declared, turning in a circle to casually show off the logo and rockers on the back of his cut.

Against me, Randy tensed harder.

For a second, I thought it was because he was accepting defeat.

But when his arm tightened harder and the muzzle loosened—like maybe he was going to move it, aim it somewhere else—I knew the challenge to his authority was making him want to double down.

I was going to have to do something.

Or I was going to watch my ex gun down the man I’d fallen for.

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