“Eh …” Cleo glanced at me, seeking help.

Our eyes locked.

I couldn’t hide my desire that Cleo would find happiness within this group. If she was to become completely immersed in my world, she had to become accepted and loved by the Club.

She was it for me. She needed to realize that—along with everyone else in this room.

I smiled. “This is our brotherhood, sisterhood … family. The sooner you get to know them, the better.” It was up to her to set rules and boundaries. I wouldn’t do it for her. I was her lover, not her fucking jailer.

Looking around the room, I knew some of us might not survive the upcoming war. Death wouldn’t take us easily, but nothing was guaranteed in our world. We all knew the risks. We all accepted them in order to do what must be done.

The room was packed with leather and humans—the sooner this meeting was over, the sooner I could get some fresh air. The pounding in my skull only grew worse the stuffier the air became.

Rapping the gavel on the table again, I cleared my throat. “Now that we’re all here. Let’s begin.”

Chapter Seventeen

Cleo

He loved it.

It was worth the excessive price tag. The moment I’d given Art the Libra-shaped eraser, something had changed between us. It was as if his eyes were opened, like he’d finally noticed me after all this time. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. I knew that now, and I wouldn’t stop until he was mine completely. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen

“Rubix and Asus Killian, along with every member of Dagger Rose who won’t repent, will be slaughtered with no fucking mercy.”

The room instantly lost its friendly buzz, heading straight into cutthroat. Arthur’s voice—as deep and comforting as velvet—switched to a savage scrawl. “You always knew this day would come and I prepared you for it. You know what is expected of you and I also know what a sacrifice it might be. But they deserve to fucking die again and again for what they’ve done.”

The men sat taller.

The women shuffled closer.

This was no longer about wealth or company or comfort. The Club—with just a few sentences from its leader—switched into a machine I recognized. A machine evolved to fight, murder, and pillage. Bikers lived on the outskirts of the law for a reason. We made our homes in the grey, impervious to right and wrong.

Arthur had achieved the impossible by turning people who fought against authority into a close-knit team, but at the same time they were still ruthless, still terribly dangerous.

“Over the past three days, Grasshopper has been collecting intel on where Rubix and his Club fled to.” Rubbing a hand over his face, Arthur dispelled some of his pain but not all of it.

The telltale sign that he wasn’t coping sent my heart racing.

Residual agony glittered in his eyes like shards of green glass. “I admit I was arrogant and paid the price.” Arthur glanced at me, guilt glowing in his gaze.

Glancing back at his members, he said, “At least our plan no longer includes petitioning the state to relinquish Dagger Rose land to us.” Arthur threw me a conspired look. “We have the rightful owner sitting among us, and the bastards fled, so that aspect solved itself.”

“What do you mean?” Mo asked. “How did it solve itself?”

Arthur smirked. “Cleo can tell us.”

My lungs stuck together. “Um, I can?” I had no idea how.

Arthur spun the gavel in his fingers. “Did your father ever tell you what he did?”

I blinked.

Time stopped. The feeling of being overwhelmed increased at the mention of Thorn Price—my kindhearted, lovable father. “What he did?” I tried to remember, but there was nothing. Whatever shields were in my mind still kept that part captive. I’d hoped I wouldn’t be prisoner to amnesia anymore, but there were certain holes waiting to be filled.

Just ask him.

Arthur would tell me.

But wouldn’t that be cheating? I had to do this on my own—otherwise, who was to say what I recalled wasn’t his version of the events and not mine. I might be tainted and not remember the truth.

Arthur nodded. “He did something rather extraordinary.”

The Club watched us, their heads volleying from side to side with who spoke.

“Remind me,” I said. “Tell me something and I’ll see if I can remember the rest.”

His gaze turned cloudy, looking into the past like a seer. “We’d just come back from the beach. It was mid-summer and you’d just turned—”

“Thirteen,” I gasped, hurtling headfirst into the memory.

“Happy birthday, Buttercup.”

I threw my arms around my father once he put down the castle cake and thirteen candles stuck into the turrets. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He grinned, motioning behind me.

Hands came over my eyes and the familiar scent of spicy deodorant and grease bombarded me. “Art, stop it.” I laughed, unsuccessfully ignoring the tingles his touch caused.

“Wait a second.” His voice was a soft caress.

“Okay, she can open them now.”

Arthur dropped his hands, letting me blink and focus at a piece of paper in my father’s hand. It looked like the most boring birthday present ever. But somehow, I knew it wasn’t.

This was precious. To my father. To me. To my future.

Capturing it, my father tapped the bottom where a signature had already been scribbled and a blank space for another. “You have to sign here.”