Page 32 of Tater
He turned it over, tracing the little burn mark near the clasp.
Now it smelled like him.
Oil. Leather. Smoke.
The Royal Bastards president.
Shadow’s jaw clenched.
“She left it for him,” he muttered, voice low. “Thought she could walk away clean.”
He pocketed it. Felt the weight settle against his chest like old sin.
When he finally looked up, one of the dead men on the floor had a Bastards patch half torn from his cut—Tater’s crew. The sight made Shadow smile.
“Guess I know who to visit first,” he said.
And before he left, he kicked the door open again, just to hear it bang against the wall. Just to make sure the ghosts knew he’d been there.
He found Tater’s trail easy.
The Bastards always leave tracks.
Gas receipts. Dust. The faint echo of patched engines heading north out of town.
He followed until the road turned quiet, until the night swallowed the sound of every other bike but one.
The president’s Harley was parked outside an old motel, back corner, away from the lights. A man like Tater didn’t need to hide—he just preferred no one see the mess.
Shadow killed his engine two blocks away, rolled the rest of the distance silent.
When he saw the door cracked open, his pulse didn’t spike. He didn’t rush. He just smiled.
He slipped inside like smoke.
Tater wasn’t there. The bed was made military neat, but the smell told him everything—oil, whiskey, leather, and faintly, her.
Shadow’s hand went to the chain around his neck. He closed his fist around it until it bit into his skin.
“She marked you,” he whispered to the empty room. “My little dragon left a scent.”
He looked around once more, eyes landing on the photo half-tucked under the lamp—a grainy shot, maybe a few months old. The Reapers lined up beside their bikes, and right in the middle, Tater’s arm slung loose over Ren’s shoulder. Not possessive. Not claiming. Just comfortable.
It infuriated him.
That calmness.
That ease.
He tore the picture in half, pocketed her side, and left the rest burning in the trash can.
By the time he was back on the road, the chain was cold again, but his mind wasn’t.
Every mile north, every mile closer to the ridge, he whispered the same thing to himself, over and over, until it became a vow.
“She forgot what she is. I’ll remind her.”
Lightning flared across the horizon ahead—white veins crawling through the dark—and for a heartbeat, he swore he saw the shape of wings stretched wide against the clouds.
