He waves his hand in my direction. "Fine. I'm going. Get some sleep."

4

Tor

Kenzi ~ age two

Toren ~ age seventeen

She's slamming one of the kitchen cabinets open and closed while I'm trying to read a magazine. Babysitting on a Friday night isn't exactly my idea of fun, but Ash and Ember wanted to get away for a night to see a movie. So Uncle Tor said yes and stayed home. As usual.

Slam. Slam.

"Kenzi," I warn. "You better stop slamming that door."

She looks over at me, giggles, and slams it again. Harder.

"I mean it, I'm gonna put you to bed early if you don't stop."

She looks at me, then the cabinet, then at me again.

Slam.

Pushing the chair back, I stand and she tries to toddle off, falls, and starts to cry. I kneel down and pick her up.

"Where does it hurt, Angel?" I ask, knowing she didn't get hurt.

She holds out her palm, sniffling. "Here..."

"Should I kiss it and make it better? Do you think that'll work?"

She nods, her hair falling over her eyes. I grab her hand and plant a big noisy kiss on her palm.

"All better now?"

Nodding, she wraps her little arms around my neck and rests her head against mine.

"Uh huh."

All she wanted was for me to chase her and hug her. It's what she does.

And I melt every time.

Tor

As I drive to the shop, I'm still exhausted and pissed off from the night before. Sleep never came last night, fury racing through my veins for hours along with something else I can't find the words to explain.

That asshole put his hands on her and had the nerve to call her a cock tease. He ruined a night that was supposed to be special and memorable, and now I want to wring his skinny neck. He's an idiot for even thinking he could ever have a girl like her, and I'm proud of her for saying no to him. If I ever cross paths with Jason again, I'm going to beat some respect into him. He'll be wearing the imprint of my silver skull rings on his pretty boy face for a long time.

I tell myself my rage stems from some punk pawing my niece like a twenty-buck whore. I'd feel the exact same way if someone treated my little sister like that and my reaction would be the same.

But, not quite the same, right, Tor?

The feelings that surfaced later, when her hands slowly crept down my shoulders to my chest and her eyes fixated on my mouth, her own lips parting and practically begging...I don't know what the fuck that was.

I tell myself the way our bodies melted perfectly into each other for what could only have been mere seconds, and how her voice took on a sweet, sensual wistfulness when she told me she wanted to hide me away in her box of cherished possessions, all meant nothing and were figments of exhaustion.

I lie.

I'd live in that box for the rest of my life just to make her happy.

At the next stop light, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, then pull back slightly and bang my head against it. Hard. And again. And again. And again. Until blood trickles down my face.

I did not just think that. I did not feel any of that. I did not pull her closer. I did not silently beg her to never take her hands off me. I did not want to touch her face and promise her the world. I did not love seeing her in nothing but my shirt in the middle of my kitchen.

I will never, ever let my mind wander to her again.

I will never, ever wish for what I can never have.

The car behind me blares its horn for me to move, rousing me from my thoughts and brain-banging.

"Alright, alright..." I mutter into the rearview mirror, gunning the gas and wiping my hand across my bloody forehead. Everyone is so fucking impatient nowadays.

My mood today could not be more perfect for the task at hand. Tanner and our buddy Sled don't say a word as we drive to the address given to us by an anonymous tipper. I barely have to look at the address to know where the house is. Nine times out of ten, they're in the same neighborhood, and this one's no exception. It's a seedy part of a nearby town, home to drug dealers, addicts, and assorted derelicts. There was a time when I spent way too much time in this part of town, fighting underground and engaging in other activities I'm not proud of. Watching my brothers follow me down that same destructive path forced me to get out, and I convinced them to get out of it too before one of us ended up in prison or dead.

So now, we build custom bikes, and we rescue lost and abused pets. And on some days, like today, we might just get the chance to fight and give some asshole a well-deserved ass kicking. That's always a bonus, especially when I'm in a bad mood.

I park the truck across the street from the house in question and we take a quick inventory of our surroundings as we make our way to the front door. A large garage in the back has the tell-tale boarded up windows. Several rusty dog cages are stacked next to the garage, partially hidden in the bushes. We've been doing this for years with a decent success rate, but there's always the chance we could get shot or stabbed by someone strung out on drugs or just unwilling to comply with our demands. All of us are trained fighters and know how to disarm someone, but that doesn't make the risk any less real. We're not cops, and these guys don't have to go along with our plan, even though we're giving them the easy way out, they don't always see it that way.

Knocking on the door is my preference over the doorbell, and after three knocks the door opens and a guy with no shirt and sweatpants on squints at us.

"Sup?" He says.

Most of these guys aren't too nervous when they see us at the door because we don't look like law enforcement. When three guys show up at the door covered in tats, wearing leather vests and dark sunglasses, two with long hair and one with a half- shaved, tattooed head, they usually think we're here to buy drugs or get in on their action.

"Can we come inside?" I ask.

He swings the door open. "Okay, bro. You lookin' for something special?"

I've already noticed the white lines on the coffee table, the pill bottles, and the drug paraphernalia littering the house. A fawn pit bull is sitting beside the ratty mustard yellow couch, watching our every move. She has no visible scars, so she's most likely a pet or a guard dog.

"We heard you have fighting dogs." Tanner says, moving to my right.

The guy nods, and his suspicious expression shows he's not quite sure how he wants to react to us. "I might. You lookin' to buy or to bet? Shit goes down on Friday and Saturday."

My teeth clench. "Does that all happen here?"

His eyes shift from me to my boys and it's evident he's not sure he can trust us. "Mostly, yeah."

"How much you asking for a fighter?" Tanner asks, lighting up a cigar.

"Depends on the dog. We got puppies you can train yourself or we got experienced dogs that will fight to the death and win every ring. They're fucking gnarly terrors, man, and they go for a few grand if you're serious."

"Oh we're very serious," I say calmly. "We're with Devils’ Wolves dog rescue."

"What the fuck is that?"

"We rescue abused dogs," I answer. "Dog fighting is illegal."

"You the fuckin' cops?" He steps back, almost tripping over one of the several beer bottles on the stained carpet.

"No, but we work with them and could have them here in about ten minutes if you don't cooperate," Tanner says. "And it looks to me like you might not want the cops here. Unless you're snorting baby powder over there."

His nostrils flare at us. "Fuck you guys. Get out of my house."

I shake my head. "Not without the dogs."

His eyes shift over to the dog. "Achtung!" He commands, and the dog jumps to its feet, its eyes riveted on me.

"Sitz!" I meet the dog’s brown eyes, unwavering, and she obeys my command and sits. "Bleib!" I tell the dog to stay and turn my hard gaze to its owner after I'm convinced the dog will stay put. "You think I don't know fuckin' German?"

"You're gonna regret that, motherfucker," his arm swings up and I quickly block him. Delivering a hard punch to his face, he goes down fast to the floor. I've learned that making another man's dog listen to your commands is right up there with sleeping with his woman - they don't like it.

Sled flashes me an evil grin. "Nice."

"Thanks." Hitting him felt good. Too good. It's eased some of my anger from last night, at least for the moment.

I kick the guy on the floor with my boot and he rolls over, holding his bleeding face. "Get up, buddy. We're not done. Unless you like laying in your own garbage?"

"What the fuck do you assholes want?" He stands slowly, wiping the blood from his broken, crooked nose with the back of his hand.

"We just want the dogs, that's it. We don't want your drugs, or your money. We won't even tell the cops what we saw here. The deal is we take the dogs and you agree to never fight dogs again. Simple as that. You can sit here for the rest of your fuckin' life and get stoned man, we don't care. We just want the dogs."

He attempts to talk but I raise my hand, making him flinch. "There's no debates. Either you let us take the dogs, calm and quiet, or we're calling the police, and that's gonna go way worse for you. Your choice on how much you want to lose."

Tanner leans down and pets the dog, which is still in the stay position, and it wags its tail at his gentle touch.

"Take the fucking dogs." The guy mumbles, his voice thick and nasally.

"Good choice. How many you got?"

"Eight adults and four puppies downstairs and there's four bait dogs out in the fucking garage."

Puppies and bait dogs. What a scumbag.

I haul my arm back and crash my fist into his face again, knocking him back down onto the floor. "That's for the puppies and bait dogs, asshole. You might want to stay down there, after all."

My brother nudges my arm. "You in a bad mood today, Tor?"