I let the purr roll through my chest under the truck, low enough that the engine noise covers it.
Holly Summers shoves through the side door around noon with takeout boxes from the Rusty Anchor stacked in her arms. Her hair is purple this week. Her jacket hangs open, tattoo sleeves visible under a thin black tank top. The Russian dagger on her left forearm is old and faded. The koi on her right is new, colour still saturated.
Rex is off the parts counter before her boots clear the doorway.
Holly sets the boxes on the counter and Rex is at the door frame before she turns around. His palm goes flat against the wood above her head. She tilts her chin up. He says something too low for me to catch. She shifts her weight onto one hip, an inch closer to him than anyone should stand to Rex Flynn, and grins at him like she's daring him to do something about it.
She holds the grin a few seconds longer, then ducks under his arm and strolls out the way she came in. "Enjoy, boys." The door swings shut. Her truck cranks over in the lot and Rex stands in the doorway watching her taillights turn out of the drive.
Finn, without looking up from his wrench, "You're an idiot."
"Shut up."
I say nothing. I've known Rex long enough to recognise a man running from the one thing he wants.
Knox rolls into the lot at three with Sarah on the back of the bike and Reeve strapped to his chest in a carrier that looks absurd against the leather of his cut. Three-month-old orc baby in a knit cap, and Knox handles him like he's been doing it his whole life.
Sarah swings off the bike and tugs Knox's hand. "We need ten minutes."
"Twenty," Knox says.
Sarah's cheeks flush. She's already unbuckling the carrier straps from Knox. "Garrett, can you—"
I'm already reaching. She passes Reeve to me. Knox follows Sarah through the clubhouse door with a hand on her lower back and a stride that has nothing to do with club business. The door shuts behind them. Finn, from under a hood two bays down, says "Twenty bucks says fifteen minutes."
I ignore him. Reeve settles into the crook of my arm the way he always does—easy, boneless, trusting in a way that tightens something behind my ribs. I check the beanie, tuck the blanket edge under his chin, and lower myself onto the bench outside the bay. He grabs a fistful of my chest fur and yanks. I let him.
One hand under Reeve's back, the whole span of it from his shoulders to his thighs. One hand at the base of his skull where the soft spot is still closing. The kid weighs nothing. He opens his eyes—the dark amber Knox gave him—and stares up at my facewith the attention of a creature who hasn't learned yet that some of us get stared at for other reasons.
He giggles.
Knox comes back fifteen minutes later with his shirt untucked and Sarah half a step behind him, her hair redone badly and a flush still climbing her neck. She reaches for Reeve. He's asleep against my chest, one fist still tangled in my fur, his breathing slow and even.
"Out cold," I say.
Sarah lifts him gently, tucking him against her shoulder. She mouthsthank youat me and presses a kiss to Reeve's head. Knox claps my shoulder on his way past.
"You're his favourite," he says. "Don't let it go to your head."
Sarah takes Reeve inside. Knox watches her go, then turns to me.
"Walk with me."
We cross the lot to his office. He shuts the door.Sits behind his desk and pulls three envelopes from the top drawer. Dark wax seals, heavy parchment. He sets them in a row between us.
"These came in at the mail drop on Wednesday."
I break the wax on the first one. The handwriting is a clerkish slope I've seen on Bloodstone clan documents. No more gifts. No more invitations to winter feasts.
The clans will not be ignored forever.
Your brothers will suffer for your cowardice.
Return voluntarily or be retrieved.
I read each one twice. Fold them back along their creases.
"Retrieved means dogs and ropes and a cage in the back of a truck," I say.
