Page 12 of Desert Loyalties
He looks at me then, and for once there’s no fire, no smirk, just... truth.
“The club saved my life. Took a lost, pissed-off kid and gave him something worth protecting. And now I’m sitting here trying not to fuck this up with the only woman who ever made me feel like I might be more than just the scars I carry.”
I can’t speak. I’m not even sure I’m breathing. He lost his family in a fire, a fuckin’ fire. We were doomed before we even started.
I know pain. I know what it feels like to be burned by life, left alone in a world where no one gives a fuck whether you live or die. I also know what it’s like to lash out, to get angry.
Neither of us speaks for a while. Not until I break the silence and tell him something I’ve only ever told one person before.
Ben stood by me; she didn’t look at me different but she understood. Why I was so guarded, why I was spiralling.
I hope Drake can handle my truth.
Chapter 5
MANDRAKE
I give her as long as she needs.
It wasn’t easy, telling her something I’ve barely let myself remember, let alone say out loud. But it felt right. Maybe for the first time in years saying it didn’t make me feel weak. It didn’t make me feel small. It just… made me human.
When I first came to the Horsemen, I was eighteen, angry, and already hardened by a system that didn't give a damn if I lived or died. They didn’t coddle me here. No one sat me down for therapy or asked about my past. They threw me into grunt work, barked orders, and made me earn my place. And that worked for me. Talking didn’t. So, I shoved the pain down deep. Locked it up in a box, wrapped it in barbed wire, and buried it.
That box held more than just grief.
It held the fact that from seven to eighteen, I had nobody. Not a soul in the damn world that would’ve noticed if I disappeared. The only person I had left… well I was a burden, even to her, so I pushed her away. That kind of loneliness isn’t just painful, it’s bone-deep. It settles in your marrow and tells you you’re not worth keeping. You learn not to expect birthdays or warmth or even a decent meal. You learn to keep your mouth shut and your fists ready. You learn not to hope.
It made me bitter. Made me push the decent homes away when they did come around. By the time I figured out that maybe I didn’t want to be angry all the damn time, it was too late. I’d been labelled. A delinquent. A problem. A kid that would age out of the system and probably end up another headline.
Then came the club. And for the first time, I belonged somewhere.
I glance over at Skye. She’s staring at nothing, her fingers twisted in her lap, head tilted up like she’s holding back tears.
She breathes deep, and I know she’s about to give me something raw. Something she hasn’t shared with anyone here. Maybe not with anyone, period.
"My mom died when I was born," she says, voice thin but steady. “Actually—on the day I was born. Placenta previa. She died giving birth to me.”
She swallows hard.
“She’d already had three healthy kids. But I…” she hesitates, and her voice breaks, “I killed her.”
I want to tell her that’s not true. That it wasn’t her fault. That babies don’t kill their mothers. But something in her expression tells me this is her truth. Right now, she doesn’t need comfort. She needs someone to listen.
So, I shut up and do just that.
“My father didn’t blame me,” she says quietly. “He loved me. That’s what my grandparents always said. That he held me and cried and promised to raise me right. But it was his mother, my paternal grandmother, who thought I was… wrong.”
My fists curl.
“She said my spirit killed my mom’s. She believed it so hard that one day, she had a DNA test done. Somehow, she got a sample. I don’t know how. But it came back saying I wasn’t my father’s daughter. Biologically.”
Her voice hardens, distant now.
“She told him. Claimed she always knew. That she looked at me and just knew I wasn’t his. And he believed her.”
Skye’s eyes go far away. Like she’s back in that moment. Small. Abandoned.
“He sent me to live with my mom’s parents. Said it was better for everyone. I was just a baby. A few months old. From a mansion with a nanny to a trailer park on the edge of nowhere. I don’t remember that time… him. My grandparents… they barely stayed sober long enough to raise my mom. By the time I got there, they drank booze for breakfast.”
